‘If you are still interested in that house, you might want to take another look at it.’’ It was Janet, our realtor, also my husband’s cousin, calling to tell us about the expensive house in Newton. “The owner just had a heart attack and wants to get rid of his properties, you might think about making a lower offer.’’

We liked the house, but it was way above our modest budget. The 1920s house in Waban was not beautiful. The owner had bought it to fix up and sell. He had replaced the heating system and the roof, updated the bathrooms and kitchen, and painted the exterior. His taste in interior decorating left much to be desired (ugly paneling), but he had refinished the hardwood floors.

To our surprise, he accepted our offer, and we were homeowners.

Our DIY skills were minimal, and we had a baby to think about, but we set to work with enthusiasm. We painted the paneling white, greatly improving it. My attempts at wallpapering were disastrous, however. My husband pointed out the obvious seams. I had chosen a red paper, so there was no hiding them. Undeterred, I took a red marker and colored in the white bits. “No one will notice,’’ I said blithely.

We both hated the battleship gray exterior with the yellow trim, so my husband got paint, borrowed ladders, gathered up cousins, and dug in. We chose a classic white exterior with black shutters and a red front door, to which we added a brass lion’s head knocker. With the yard cleaned up, it all looked classier.

We were enjoying being first-time owners, but there were drawbacks.

In that established neighborhood in 1971, most of the residents were much older and richer than we were. There were no young families nearby, so I was quite lonely. The house had no backyard, and one bathroom opened directly into the kitchen. I could stick my son in the tub and keep an eye on him while I peeled potatoes.

We lived there only eight months. My husband was transferred, so we put the house back on the market, hiring Janet as our agent again. She thought our cosmetic changes would help; one line in her ad mentioned the “colorama’’ kitchen, so my efforts had paid off.

The house sold fairly quickly to a young family with three children. We made a big mistake — Janet had warned us — and allowed them to move in before the closing. The husband arrived at the closing with a laundry list of problems, seeking a considerable price drop. He was livid that we had replaced the door knocker, a wedding present, with a less expensive version. “That door knocker sold us the house!’’ he argued.

Both husbands stood chest to chest, arms akimbo. Janet broke the stalemate. She announced that if we didn’t resolve this, the closing would be off. Things moved quickly after that.

We were former homeowners: slightly richer, and a little sadder — until I unwrapped the brass knocker for our next house.

Brenda Zolli, a retired registered nurse, has lived in her Norfolk home for 35 years and still cannot hang wallpaper. Send comments to brendazolli@verizon.net and your 550-word essay on your first home to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.