I was discarded and disgraced. The aftermath left me broke and broken. My bank accounts were drained, credit cards defaulted, and whatever I could stuff in the old Dodge Durango was all I owned.
The place I laid my head at night went from privilege to necessity. Too ashamed to tell anyone, I slept in my office, separated from my children — separated from my home. It was humiliating. I woke up before students got to campus, went to Gold’s Gym, and then showered and shaved in the locker room. I was homeless.
After a month of this exhausting and lonely routine, I shared my story with a close friend. We met when he was in high school. I’m ten years older and like a brother. He came to me during tough times — college, breakups, new girlfriends, negotiating a job offer, marriage, and buying his first house. Now I was coming to him. So when he offered a room in that new home with his young wife, it was humbling.
I missed my children. They couldn’t stay with me if I didn’t have a place of my own. When I saved enough money for a few months’ rent, I said goodbye to my friends and got an apartment in the city, a short bike ride to the university. The children could stay with me every other weekend and on some weekdays. As I made a new living space from emptiness, so did the kids. We all had a blank canvas. They were both in middle school and enjoyed the freedom to be creative.
My daughter loved to read. The main feature of her bedroom was the tall bookshelves. She picked a beautiful piece of metal art with fall-colored trees that hung above her bed. She had my mom’s old sewing machine, where she was a master at making pillows for the apartment. The final accent was colored LEDs.
The boy had to sacrifice his space and share a room with me. I could only afford a two-bedroom place and thought a teenage girl needed privacy more than a pre-teen boy and me. It was a compromise, for sure. So he got free rein in the living room, where he went for leather recliners, a large screen TV, and a huge framed poster of Citi Field, home of the New York Mets — our team. The art print was seven feet wide and five feet tall. It spanned the entire wall above the recliners.
The year in that apartment was one for the books. I got serious with a new girlfriend. It became apparent that having a romantic relationship and two children in and out of a two-bedroom space was unsustainable. I needed a bigger place. And, honestly, I needed to be a homeowner again — for my independence — to restore my pride.
Three bedrooms and two baths were a must. I wanted Broughton High School to be an option for them. If you know Raleigh, that location was a tall order. Can I afford this? I was barely making it month to month. There was still no money in the bank or credit to work with. But I was a professor with a track record of steady income. I banked with the state employees’ credit union. Walking in was going back in time — teller lines stocked with paper deposit slips, pens on beaded chains, real humans behind the counter, and loan managers behind big desks.
Despite my low balance, one of the managers considered my life situation and pre-approved a mortgage. Amazing! But could I find a house zoned for Broughton, one with three bedrooms and two baths, one that I could afford?
The children participated in the search for what seemed an impossible task. Quicker than expected — we found a house! It was too good to be true, sitting on the perimeter of Boylan Heights. This coveted inner-city neighborhood was way outside my price range, but the edgy street was just close enough to the railroad tracks to be affordable.
The kids loved it. It had a massive backyard with a built-in bocce ball court. It was a romantic, 40s-era craftsman-style home with creaky wood floors and solid bones. It was conveniently located between the university where I worked, the desired high school, and the city.
I jumped on it.
Long after my offer was accepted and just days before closing, I went from cloud nine to rock bottom. The bank did one last credit check and found my first house, from my first marriage, had gone into foreclosure.
That was it. I lost the Boylan Heights home. I lost my children.
I had already given up the apartment in anticipation of moving into the house. I planned to store my things for a few days while the kids were with their mother. We’d all be in the new home together when they returned.
But that never happened. My things stayed in storage for months. I stayed at my girlfriend’s for months. And my children — they didn’t stay with me for months. During that time, inspired by the events that led to this day, disgraced, left for broke, my first home in foreclosure, and my drop from the clouds to the gutter, I lost my temper.
The kids saw it all. It was my lowest low. My daughter never came to live with me again.
At the time, I didn’t know I’d lose her for ten years and counting. After my meltdown, I pulled myself together and returned to house hunting. We had lightning in a bottle with the Boylan Heights home. How was I going to repeat that miracle?
There were no homes left in desirable neighborhoods that met my criteria. I mean, price range. There was, however, a risky option. One of the poorest neighborhoods in the city was zoned for Broughton as part of the school board’s mission to increase diversity. Maybe I should drive over there and take a look?
I saw gangs on the streets selling drugs, prostitutes standing on the corners, and a pimp with a purple velour suit with a matching hat strutting the streets. The houses were falling apart — siding and roofing with gaping holes, front porches filled with piles of clothes and furniture. It was a mess.
But I saw something else — two beautifully restored homes oddly out of place. One was lived in. I left a note in the mailbox. The other was for sale. I sat on the front porch and observed the street. An old lady rolled a shopping cart filled with groceries one way, an old man pushed a cart filled with metal scraps the other way, and the pimp walked prominently both ways. I checked the listing on my phone.
I can afford this place! Wait, no, I can’t. I can’t afford shit with a foreclosure on my record. It doesn’t matter. There’s no way my girlfriend will live here. Can I raise the kids here? This looks like gentrification. Do I want to be part of gentrification?
I left the porch and walked toward the city skyline. At the edge of the neighborhood, a home amid renovation stood on a ridge above MLK Boulevard. I walked up the steps to the porch. The front door was open. No one here. A ladder stood in the middle of the living room. I tiptoed through the house and out the doorless back door onto a deck. There was a massive yard, two towering old trees, and a clear city view.
This would be our home.
I was torn. Gentrification. Drugs. Violence. The Pimp. I researched the city plans. It was up and coming. But it didn’t feel good. Do I want to be part of this? It also felt good. Do I want to be part of this? My student’s older brother was a city cop. He took my girlfriend and me on a drive through the dangerous streets and spoke about the crime and how it changed. “In five years, you won’t recognize this place,” he said. I talked to the homeowners where I left the note. They had a good experience so far.
It had everything. It was zoned to Broughton, had three bedrooms, two baths, a fenced-in yard for the dog, and plenty of space for a garden. The house sat adjacent to a big field where my daughter could practice soccer and my son baseball. It was a short walk to the city’s center. But the crime? Being part of gentrification?
None of this could happen unless the manager at the credit union waived the looming foreclosure. Unfathomably — that’s just what he did.
I took the risk. It was an investment towards financial freedom. We reasoned that we couldn’t stop gentrification from happening. If we bought the home, we could support the community. Over the years, we hired neighbors to mow the yard and trim the trees. One, we helped start his own lawn business. It enabled him and his partner to move out of a halfway house and into an apartment of their own. That felt good.
We’ve been in the home for ten years. It’s not been without incident. Teenagers broke in. Nothing was stolen — the dog scared them away. We had an officer-involved shooting. There was a homicide when my son was home alone with his girlfriend. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. But that didn’t matter. It was scary. Did I do the right thing?
You wouldn’t recognize our neighborhood today. The falling-apart homes are the rare ones. I haven’t seen the pimp in years, but I still see the prostitutes. It’s not perfect; there are pockets of crime. Some homes are too big. Do we need a 4000-square-foot place in this part of town? There is also a sincere effort to have affordable housing and maintain the diverse roots of this community.
I still wonder if we did the right thing. I’m still estranged from my daughter. It’s not perfect. But in the end, the people are the silver lining. Friends welcomed me into their home. A girlfriend took a chance on me and took this risk with me. A son stuck with me through thick and thin. A banker gave a single father back his credit. He gave me back my pride.
Thank you for reading.
Health, happiness, kindness, respect
for every being and all things.
— Andrew
Originally published on Medium in Age of Empathy on 02 March 2025.
© 2026 Andrew J. DiMeo, Sr. All rights reserved. Permission granted to share with attribution.
Wow, man, real experience and great story (looking back on it I hope feels better). North Carolina, whew, I won't forget going to High Point all those times for the furniture show. Driving in felt like going through gangland and going a street away from the exhibition building felt incredibly dangerous.
Wow. Amazing. Powerful.