They say if life stops listening, change your scenery.

For me, that meant changing zip codes—and maybe deleting every dating app with the same enthusiasm people reserve for clearing browser history. After a string of awful relationships, the last straw was a McDonald’s breakup.

“You’re very dear to me… like a friend,” he said, holding a box of fries like a consolation prize.

Three years down the drain — and one weekend trapped with his gassy chihuahua I can never emotionally recover from.

Before him, there was Max. Greek god on the outside, emotional tumbleweed on the inside. He cheated—with my friend.

The one before that? Let’s just say my therapist still brings it up, billable hour or not.

So no, I didn’t cry. I ordered pizza, opened my laptop, and typed:

“House in the countryside to escape everything—including men.”

Google didn’t have a category for that, but I found a listing anyway:

“Charming house in a quiet town. A real place for fresh beginnings.”

Click.

It was perfect—wooden beams, soft lighting, a wraparound porch, a garden that practically begged for fresh tomatoes. And—my hometown! The kind of place where the librarian remembers your zodiac sign and your overdue fees. But the price… still a bit high.

I submitted an inquiry, not expecting much.

Minutes later: a video call request.

A woman appeared—silver curls, cherry lipstick, floral robe that looked like it had its own personality.

“Darling! It’s me, Edna! You inquired about the house.”

“Do we… know each other?”

“Probably not. I forget most things by lunch anyway.”

She was odd, but warm—like a grandmother who grew up in a jazz bar. When I mentioned the price being too high, she smiled and said:

“I’ve lowered it. A special deal for someone real. Maybe a little broken, but still breathing.”

I laughed. For the first time in weeks.

We signed quickly. I didn’t read the fine print. I mean, it’s just a house—what could possibly go wrong?

A week later, I arrived. The house was perfect. I found the key in a pot of pelargoniums like a botanical treasure hunt and started unpacking.

But that night, upstairs… I heard music.

Old-timey waltz music.

I crept up, and there she was—Edna—waltzing alone, elegant as if the year were 1942.

“You sold me this house!” I stammered.

“Yes! And I live here too,” she chirped. “Didn’t you read the contract?”

I ran to my laptop and found Clause 8:

“Buyer agrees to provide housing and companionship to the seller for one year—or until her natural death—whichever comes first.”

“What the hell is this?!”

Edna just winked. “You bought more than a house, sweetheart. You bought community.”

Living with Edna was like starring in a chaotic sitcom I never auditioned for.

She replaced my curtains with glow-in-the-dark ones. She vacuumed during my Zoom calls. She threw away my favorite underwear because they “screamed loneliness.”

One day, I snapped. I ran through the woods like I was fleeing a cult.

But when I returned—sweaty, exhausted, a little feral—I saw men’s sneakers in the hallway.

“Please be a plumber,” I whispered.

In the kitchen: a man. Not a plumber. Not the mailman. A full-grown, handsome, non-cheating man-man.

“Oh! Meet Jason, my grandson,” Edna beamed. “Doctor. Single. Remember him?”

Jason looked up. And blinked.

“Wait… Olivia?! From college?”

We had known each other. We’d even almost gone on a date—before life, exams, and my bad taste in men intervened.

Edna smirked. “Of course I remembered. That’s why I gave you the discount—family rates!”

I locked myself in my room. This wasn’t real. It was matchmaking masquerading as real estate.

But then…

The next morning, something shifted.

Jason was flipping pancakes in my apron like he’d lived there for years. I was wearing his hoodie, humming Sinatra, pretending this wasn’t the coziest moment of my life. We looked like an Instagram couple from a sponsored syrup ad.

Edna came downstairs. Froze.

“Dear God… is that my sapphire ring?”

Jason grinned. “She said yes.”

Technically, I had said “maybe” at 3:17 a.m. over peach pie. But who’s counting?

Edna gasped. “I didn’t plan THIS! I just wanted one dinner! A casual movie night!”

Jason shrugged. “You said love can’t be scheduled.”

She threw her hands up. “Fine. But I won’t babysit before noon.”

We all laughed. But inside me, something unclenched—something that had been tight and tired for years.

That night, Jason and I talked till sunrise. We confessed stupid college regrets, sang terrible ’90s hits, and for the first time… I felt found. Not chosen out of convenience. Not half-loved. Not tolerated.

Maybe Edna wasn’t a meddling tornado after all.

Maybe she was fate’s loud, floral-robed messenger.

And maybe—just maybe—the fine print led me to something far finer than I ever imagined.