A house. A profit. And the exact moment your accountant ruins your mood.
You sell your home and everything feels aligned with the cosmos.
Years of repairs. Weekend projects that somehow ate entire Saturdays. Dust in places dust should never reach. Arguments over tile samples. You endured it all. And now it finally pays off.
The sale closes. The number looks beautiful. You’re already mentally allocating the money: travel, upgrades, investments, maybe even something irresponsible.
Then your accountant clears their throat.









