Twenty-one years ago, when we were house-hunting in northern Virginia, we told our real estate agent that we wanted an “older house.” So she brought us here, to a 13-year-old (at the time) center-hall colonial with a big backyard. It wasn’t exactly what we were looking for, but the older houses were closer in, smaller and more than we could afford.

Fast forward two decades. The house that once seemed new and polished is sagging and fraying. The floors creak, the windows stick and the walls, oh, they could tell you stories. We’ve finally found our “older house” in northern Virginia. It’s our own.