Arthur pulled his pristine, black BMW sedan onto Willow Lane the following morning, irritation still simmering beneath his tailored suit jacket. He had spent the drive rehearsing a no-nonsense speech and intended to give her a reality check about the harsh nature of appraisals, rigid bank loans, and why wasting a professional’s time was a bad look.
As he slowed to a stop in front of number 142, his skepticism only deepened. The house was incredibly ordinary, looking exactly like every other bungalow on the block with its faded cream paint, neatly trimmed lawn, and ceramic gnomes guarding the porch.
“A quarter of a million at best,” Arthur muttered to himself, grabbing his leather portfolio. He marched up the concrete walkway exactly at 10:00 AM, knocked on the weathered wooden front door, and prepared to make this educational visit as brief as humanly possible.