I never imagined starting over in my sixties. After discovering my husband with a woman half our age, I packed a suitcase and walked out without a word. My children begged me to forgive him, but I’d spent decades putting others first. It was time to choose myself. I stumbled upon a real estate course promising “a new career at any age.” It was grueling—my memory wasn’t sharp, and rejection came fast. Every interview ended with polite smiles and eyes that screamed, “You’re too old.” But I kept going, determined to prove them wrong.
When I finally landed a job, the office buzzed with youth and arrogance. At lunch, no one offered me a seat. I overheard Tina and Jake mocking me, predicting I’d quit after one open house. Then I heard them talking about a “cursed” listing—an old house no one could sell. They joked it was haunted. I stepped in and said, “I’ll take it.” They laughed, called me grandma, and handed me the keys. But I saw opportunity where they saw failure. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts—or of proving them wrong.
The house was worn but solid. I spent hours cleaning, photographing, and crafting the perfect listing. The next morning, a young couple called—Chloe and Ethan—interested in a tour. Ethan came alone and seemed genuinely intrigued until he screamed in one bedroom, claiming to see a ghost. He fled, terrified. But something didn’t add up. I found a hidden closet and a modern gold earring on the floor. Ghosts don’t wear jewelry. Someone had staged the haunting. I pocketed the earring, suspecting sabotage. They’d picked the wrong woman to fool.
Back at the office, I spotted a photo on Jake’s desk—him with Chloe. She was his sister. I confronted them during a second showing. Chloe tried to negotiate half price, citing the ghost. I handed her the earring and exposed their scheme. They’d used Jake’s insider info to fake a haunting and drive down the price. I threatened to report them for fraud unless they bought the house legally. Cornered, they agreed. I walked away from that porch knowing I’d turned their trick into my triumph.
An hour later, I dropped the signed papers on Jake’s desk. His jaw dropped. “You actually sold it?” he stammered. “Full price,” I replied. Our manager congratulated me, promising a bonus. The room fell silent. I looked at Jake and smiled. “So, which sock would you like for lunch—left or right?” For the first time, I wasn’t someone’s ex-wife or someone’s mother. I was Maggie—the woman who sold the haunted house. And I didn’t believe in ghosts. I believed in myself.
