Blending in as best I could with the sleek agents at my office was critical. My son, Dashiell, was only eight and my daughter, Margot, just eleven when I started selling real estate out of necessity. I needed many more sales than just the one, and fast. Which is why, after my first sale, I used most of the commission to buy a few “essential items” for my new career: one fancy purse, one trendy pair of overpriced sneakers, a leased Audi, and a weekly car wash. Money was a constant source of worry, one I had to hide from the glittering industry in which I now worked: high-end residential real estate. She helped with the childcare I could no longer afford. After my divorce, I put almost my entire budget toward renting this house so I could be around the corner from my older sister, Tara. I was forty-three years old, soon to turn forty-four, a single working mother renting a tiny yellow bungalow and barely scraping by in the Pacific Palisades, a quiet but expensive neighborhood in the west side of Los Angeles. Photo-Illustration: by the Cut Photos Getty Images
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