There’s life after foreclosure. I know, because I’m living it.

As I sit here, surrounded by flat cardboard waiting to be taped into boxes, mounds of laundry scattered and trampled into soft carpet, garbage bags full of toy scraps, battered and ripped children’s books interspersed with black shriveled and stiff banana peels, I’m relieved.

Yes, relieved.

Three years ago we moved back to Fresno to be near family, a new job and a chance to purchase our first home. The relocation wasn’t decided on lightly. It took much consideration to leave a town we loved. Even more difficult was trying to judge how the change would affect our oldest son who was challenged with autism.

Purchasing a home was easier than pulling money out of my 401k for the closing costs. The difficulty was in paying the monthly mortgage. But that was OK. We were finally living the American Dream. This was how it worked.

At least that was what I was raised to believe. You purchased a home knowing it would be financially difficult for awhile. The first few years you slave to the mortgage, pinch pennies and cut out extras and, after a few pay raises, it got easier. In about five years you breathe again, feel proud to own a home and watch rental rates soar above your monthly mortgage payment and know you did good.

What I didn’t factor in was multi-year wage freeze, a pay cut, becoming pregnant after 15 years infertility, living in the hospital for a month and missing a house payment. That and my house didn’t gain value, it plummeted. In less than two years it was valued 130,000 dollars less than purchase price.

Really, who could predict that?

The fix wasn’t simple, nor expected to be. Thankfully, the bank was willing to work with us. As money-strapping as the mortgage was, we’d pay an additional large sum every month until we became current. That meant even some of the basics had to be cut. Trips to the grocery store would be sparse and Top Ramen would be our once-again friend. Starbucks became a fuzzy memory and a precarious tightrope act began on what bills to pay and what to delay.

Each month was more difficult. Complicating it further were accrued late fees, penalties and insane electric bills. Another phone call to the mortgage company introduced us to the Home Affordability Mortgage Program (H.A.M.P.). If we just called this other number we might qualify for help.

Reaching these folks was its own frustrating adventure of busy signals, two hour hold times that abruptly disconnected. It took months to make contact with a human.

Still we persevered, jumped hoops, faxed and FedEx’d requested paperwork and were elated to find out we qualified for the trial period. Finally, hope and relief!

That was the beginning of the real tailspin.

“What do you mean you won’t take my payment?” I was stunned. The voice on the other end didn’t make sense. Why didn’t they want my money? “I don’t understand.”

The bank representative said, “You’ve been dropped from the program and it’ll take 14,000 dollars to bring your account current.”

What in the hell? Clearly, she was wrong. “This isn’t right. I’ve been making payments.”

“Yes, but you’ve been dropped from H.A.M.P. and now need to bring the account current. Partial payments aren’t accepted.”

“OK, so that still doesn’t explain why I owe fourteen grand. Where did my money go?” WTF did they do with it?

She muttered something about a suspended account.

All I know is while I was partially one month behind when this started. Now, I was close to seven months behind and never going to catch up. I needed more information and was transferred to an account manager. Well, to her voice mail anyhow.

This happened several times. What I pieced together from the first-tier reps and the internet are my payments went into a suspended account and weren’t applied to the mortgage. If I qualified for the permanent plan, those months would be been forgiven or rolled into the loan or something. The money can’t be applied to what is currently owed and I won’t get it back. Yet, when I lose at the house at auction, the bank keeps it. This also applies to any overage in the escrow account.

Essentially, I lined the pockets of the bank while they moved closer to foreclosure. At least that is what it seems like.

So yeah, my credit is trashed, the bills are really late or unpaid, and I can kiss my home goodbye.  I could be crying, but really I just feel relieved.

We’ll start over. A rented house is still a home as long as I’ve got my family. And, with rent being almost half our mortgage, we can now invest in other ventures like karate and gymnastics, family trips, music lessons, and college for the kids. Perhaps even an occasional date night can be squeezed in.

The shackles are off and we now wander free from the house we slaved to own. I’ve got a husband and kids to love, a life to lead, friends to meet, new neighbors to make and a book to write.

So goodbye American Dream. I’ve got new dreams now.

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