This Is Not My Beautiful House

Not long after marrying the man I would go on to divorce, I bought a Brooklyn brownstone that satisfied all my most fetishistic Brooklyn brownstone fantasies, and made me feel — in a way that only buying a Brooklyn Brownstone can make a certain kind of striving, creatively ambitious New Yorker feel — as though I had achieved a big old piece of the dream. The place was in far Carroll Gardens just off of Court Street, on a block of classic houses, and even from the outside it felt grand, with its black iron gate and hulking balustrades leading up to arched double front doors. The block was almost a cliché of the authentic you’re-in-Brooklyn-now trope: tree-lined, with kids playing catch, and an old Italian guy sweeping the sidewalk. I would learn soon enough that the old guy was really mean and the children a menace. But on that first Sunday afternoon, when I wandered over from my Boerum Hill rental on a hunch to attend the Open House, it all felt as though it was part of one perfectly charming package.

The house was a touch narrower than the others, but so perfect inside that you didn’t even notice. There were four floors, fireplaces in most every room, and a massive kitchen on the garden floor with Miele and Sub-Zero everything. There was an epic walk-in closet in the bedroom, big enough even to accommodate my ever-expanding wardrobe. The garden — the focal point of so many of my most…