My Beloved Home: The Heartbreaking Fight to Keep It
This is more than a house. It’s history, community, and everything I’ve fought to save.
Built in 1924, Steeped in History
My house was built in 1924 by the Majestic Lumber Company. It’s a modest two-bedroom, one-bath, 1,200-square-foot colonial. Not big. Not fancy. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew it was right for me.
It was one of only two farmhouses that originally sat on this land. My neighbors own the other, and together our two houses share a lot that feels like an oasis in the middle of the city. Though the farm itself faded decades ago, its spirit is alive in the soil, the trees, and the character of the property.
Over time, a neighborhood of sturdy 1950s brick ranches and bungalows grew around us. What once was farmland is now a working-class Detroit suburb — not glamorous, but full of pride, history, and community.
When I bought this place, I didn’t just buy a structure. I bought a story — one nearly a century old — and became its caretaker.
A Garden, Wildlife, and Daily Rituals
Every year, as soon as the ground thaws, I begin my spring ritual: planting a big vegetable and herb garden. I till the soil where the farm’s chicken coop once stood. That soil is rich, dark, and fertile — the kind gardeners dream about. And it rewards the effort with tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, and fresh herbs that remind me of why I love this place so much.
But the garden is just one part of the life that thrives here. My property hums with wildlife:
Cardinals, sparrows, and robins fill the mornings with song.
Raccoons and possums shuffle through the yard at night.
Chipmunks dart across the garden paths.
A hawk occasionally circles above, majestic and watchful.
One year, an owl even chose my garage as its roost.
And then there was Patches, the squirrel who lived in my trees for more than seven years. She became part of our neighborhood family — chubby from all the peanuts we gave her, never once forced to risk her life crossing a street for food. She’s gone now, but her memory is one of the many small things that make this home feel so alive.
This house isn’t just where I live — it’s where nature greets me every day, where I find peace, and where I connect with something bigger than myself.
Restoring What Was Lost
When I first bought the house, it needed love. The porch wood was so weathered it looked gray, lifeless. But underneath that surface was beauty waiting to be uncovered. With hours of sanding and care, I revealed a warm, natural grain that turned the porch into a welcoming place of comfort.
That’s the kind of owner I am — someone who sees what a place can be, not just what it is. Home improvement projects have always been a passion of mine, and I had big plans for this house: refinishing, restoring, and making it a reflection of myself.
But foreclosure fraud threw a wrench in everything. Instead of putting money into new siding, updated plumbing, or finished interiors, I was forced to pour every dollar into legal costs just to fight for the right to live here.
The bank’s fraud stole not just years of stability, but years of progress. My home is still a work in progress — not because I didn’t care, but because I was forced to fight for its survival.
Seasons of Beauty, Seasons of Struggle
Fall means weekends with a rake in my hands, tackling mountains of leaves under towering oaks and pines. It’s hard work, but it’s the kind that leaves you tired in the best way.
Spring brings renewal. Lilacs burst into bloom, filling the air with fragrance so rich it’s impossible not to smile. The soil of my garden, freshly tilled, promises growth and sustenance.
Winter is harsh but beautiful. Snow blankets the property, muting the world into silence. The three massive pines behind my home stand like guardians, visible even from blocks away. Seeing them reminds me: I’m home.
Summer turns the property into a sanctuary. Ivy climbs the fences, the porch becomes a retreat, and wildlife thrives in every corner of the yard.
Through every season, my house gives me something. And through every season, I fight to keep it.
A Neighborhood That Feels Like Family
My home doesn’t stand alone — it’s part of a community I deeply value. Just a few blocks away sits Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church. Every spring, a magnolia tree on its grounds explodes into bloom, so breathtaking it feels more like a postcard from paradise than something in the Detroit area.
My neighbors are more than just people who live nearby. They are friends, allies, and part of the reason I fight so hard to stay. We share vegetables from our gardens, stories over the fence, and the responsibility of caring for the land.
This isn’t the “ruined Detroit” image the media often portrays. This is a working-class suburb, alive with history, resilience, and pride. It’s where people know your name, where every backyard barbecue feels like family, and where the fight to preserve our homes is about protecting something bigger than ourselves.
More Than a House — My Anchor Through the Storm
To outsiders, this may look like an ordinary home. To me, it’s everything.
This house is where I planted my dreams, where I’ve built my life, and where I’ve fought like hell against forces that tried to take it from me. It’s where I’ve experienced the joy of gardening, the peace of quiet mornings, and the strength of neighbors who’ve stood by me.
When Capital One and GreenPoint stole it through foreclosure fraud, I wasn’t just losing walls and a roof. I was losing my anchor, my sanctuary, my history. The theft was personal.
I’ve paid a steep price to keep it — including the indignity of renting my own home from a friend after the bank’s fraudulent foreclosure. But I will not stop. Because this isn’t just about a house. It’s about standing up to say:
👉 You don’t get to steal people’s homes and get away with it.
👉 You don’t get to erase history with fraud.
👉 And you don’t get to break me.
This home is mine. It always has been. And I will fight for it as long as I have breath in my body.
They knocked me down — but they didn’t break me. I refuse to let them win.
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