One of the primary factors for stress in most marriages is money. In a survey conducted by Sun Trust Bank in 2015, 35% of participants cited finances as the primary cause of friction in their relationship—annoying habits came in second at 25%. The number was even more pronounced among those aged 44 to 54, with 44% citing money as the central stressor. Over in the UK, a 2018 poll conducted by the legal firm Slater and Gordon found that money problems were also the number one impetus behind divorce, with one in five of those surveyed stating it as the biggest cause of conflict.

From personal experience, I remember going through martial counseling while still engaged—our pastor deemed it a perquisite to holy matrimony. She asked us point blank how we planned to handle finances during our first meeting. She wasn’t too concerned with love, affection or devotion because most marriages handled that just fine. The Benjamins though proved another beast entirely.

Oddly, despite all the hub bub, money has never been a problem between me and my wife. The fact is we are penny pinchers. We often strive to see who can be more miserly than the other. It’s not that we aren’t charitable or generous to others, but in terms of purchases for ourselves, it better be on sale or free. Anything else is obviously too much. Our drive to be thrifty extends so far that even when we buy the things we need, we do so with a notable sense of guilt. Tanya has to be coaxed to the store to buy new work clothes or fresh socks. Meanwhile, I’ll try to argue that my shoes have only three holes; when that number passes five, I’ll consider buying new ones.

We clearly share the same wavelength when it comes to dollars and common sense, but that all changes when the stakes rise higher. Cars, homes, furniture, these are the items which split our accord into vastly different camps. Something about their permanence turns my wife into oatmeal, sending the needle on her sentimentality from eight to eleven (other meters may go to ten, but hers is superior). The woman, bless her, buys bit ticket items with her heart, and it is some of the scariest stuff I have come to witness.

One of the first big purchases we ever made was a used Subaru Outback. This is back when the Outback still resembled a station wagon and not the bastard child of a stunted SUV. That car was her baby. She had dreamed of owning one well before we were married, even back in college. That’s right. While most of us were fawning over sport cars, motorcycles or trucks, my wife was ogling a family car with four wheel drive… they broke the mold with her I tell you.

The purchase process for that car went about as well as you might expect. We did our research, found one with the features she wanted and took it for a test drive. Once we got back to the lot, Tanya proposed to the car while I tried to play it cool with the salesman. Let me tell you, it’s not easy being low key while your wife dry-humps a station wagon in the background.

Jokes aside, that’s simply how Tanya is. In all other accounts, she’ll compare prices, wait for deals or simply go without until the time is right. Change the venue to something in the four figure range or higher, and her sentimental side jacks the wheel and red lines the engine. House shopping has been fun.

It all started this summer. We knew that a closet-sized bathroom would not accommodate three growing girls and two adults. Tanya also wanted to one day teach in the same school our children attended, the desire dating back to before we were married, when she still had pinup posters of Outbacks on her wall.

So, we did what we thought any responsible adult would do. We tidied up our current home, put a fresh coat of paint on it and accepted an offer the day after we listed her: seller’s market would be an understatement. Our original idea was that we would bide our time between listing and selling with a methodical perusal of the market. Once we found the house we loved, we would strike and transition in an orderly fashion. Selling our home in a little over 24 hours accelerated matters.

You see, the problem with a seller’s market is that not only do you sell your own home quite quickly, but anything worth touring is gone in about a week. To make matters worse, the town we wanted to move into was, well, odd. It seemed that every home listed had to have some sort of extraordinary flaw which detracted from an otherwise fabulous property:

Four bedroom, two bath on a dead-end road thirty feet from the elementary school, town park and library. Also built over an Indian burial ground and pet cemetery.

Five bedroom, master suite, extra half bath, faucet runs hot, cold and beer. Previous owner had sixty cats and a rabbit. They also smoked.

It was absurd and still is. One home we glanced over even had an in-ground pool in their basement. Their basement!

Panic took hold as we realized if we did not find a home for purchase soon we would either be destitute or living in apartment with three children and a cat. Selling our home and transient living suddenly sounded less responsible and more like putting the cart ahead and turning the horse into glue. Sure we wouldn’t have to make two house payments, but we’d be living out of a van.

I admit I grew concerned. Tanya did less well. The looming uncertainty of our future sent her into a spiral. We were doomed, future vagrants and completely at the mercy of fate or chance. Our children would have to sleep in the janitor’s closet at her school while I turned tricks for grocery coupons. Eventually our kids would develop a glitter addiction; I’d run off with the mop from the janitor’s closet, and she’d have to watch The Handmaid’s Tale through clips on YouTube. The horror.

Now her agitation was not unwarranted, but your mind can twist things under the weight of such stress. Suddenly that house built over two graveyards seemed a lot less spooky and more like a buy-one-get-one bargain. Properties we would otherwise write off completely were worth at least a look, or two. This of course led to our first offer.

The house wasn’t wretched. While the previous occupants may have been murdered and plastered into the stone walls of the basement, the offender had at least been tidy about it. And sure, rats and mice may have turned the attic into a latrine, but we could also hire an exterminator or do a controlled burn on the second floor. Everything else was great: walk-in closet, master bath with a his and her’s sink, three bedrooms with an easy convertible fourth and additional space galore. If you ignored the absolute top and bottom, it was a damn fine place to live.

After our second walk through, Tanya and I started talking numbers. I tried to be pragmatic and focused on what needed to be fixed before the place could be habitable. Numbers were key, and I was ready to go into negotiations like gladiatorial combat. Tanya was busy planning where the hammock would be, how she might organize card tables for family during Christmas and what kind of decorations she could set outside for other holidays.

When we got down to brass tacks, I wanted to parse out what we thought the house was really worth. The seller had clearly overpriced it. No house in this market stays unsold for more than a year without good reason. Still, we needed to settle on what we were willing to pay. That is when she hit me where it counted, the wallet. Tanya explained why her maximum was so much higher than mine. She could see us living there. She could see herself in each room, watching and playing with the kids. What’s more, she could see our grandchildren in that room.

At this point, one would expect the exact sound a record makes as the needle scratches across its face. Grandchildren. She could see our grandchildren. I’m not even forty, and my wife was planning a tertiary line which would visit and stay at a house we had not even put an offer on.

Somewhere, nestled between rows and rows of spreadsheets, loans and CDs, our bank account began screaming.

We spent several days discussing it. My rationale remained ironclad on numbers in a checkbook, pro’s and con’s balanced on a scale. Tanya struggled with the fear and hope of beginning anew. In the end we reached a happy compromise: an offer higher than I wanted but still tethered to planet Earth; lower than what Tanya wanted yet still competitive and promising. We called our Realtor, signed the lines and began the dance of negotiations. The matter remains unsettled as of yet, so we will simply wait and see.

Our struggle though stands as proof of what can be accomplished through communication and dedication. Regardless of our wildly different approaches to the financial milestones in our lives, we still reach common ground as a partnership both economical and intimate. What mattered to us is what we wanted, and so we compromised. While the future guestrooms for our children and our children’s children will not be counted on a property assessment, and the clamor of four pinochle tables in four different rooms carries no price, they still have value. And even if Tanya yearns for a hammock or Santa’s sled nailed to our roof (ugh), there are matters and conditions which must remain mathematical and pragmatic. We found our middle ground, and regardless of how negotiations end, we know we can go on.

In the end, it becomes a matter of what and where you worship. Knowing what you kneel before demonstrates what you’re willing to serve and what you’re willing to compromise. For us, our marriage stands above all else. That means we sometime end up with a pricey station wagon or a rat and bat vacation house with a murder cellar, but we do it together. In retrospect, that sounds incredibly stupid, but we both bear and enjoy it. For my part, I get to share my life with a woman who makes me laugh, makes me smile and surprises me with non-sequiturs about our babies’ babies. Sure our wallets may sob quietly in our pockets from time to time, but the truth is they don’t know what they’re missing.