The rain poured down as movers arrived to empty my Brooklyn home. Boxes filled with books, furniture, children’s school projects, and a lifetime of possessions were loaded onto the truck. A month earlier, my husband Joel Simon and I had secured a contractor, Guillermo Grasso, after a long wait. Grasso informed us that he was available, but only if the apartment was empty, including us, in four weeks. This led to a frantic packing session, and we had a surreal moment seeing our rooms as blank slates once again. Putting our cat in her carrier, we headed to temporary accommodations in rural Connecticut.
Unlike typical renovation stories where a new home is bought and the wrecking ball comes in, our situation was different. We had found our apartment two decades ago—a two-bedroom duplex in an 1870s brownstone. We fell in love with its period features, including original decorative moldings, pressed-tin ceilings, and wide-plank wood floors. Despite the quirks like rattling windows, hissing radiators, and a bowling alley-like layout for our two girls sharing a bedroom, we didn’t want to leave this cherished home.