In 2024, my wife and I were moving our family from Florida back to New York. Three kids, a new job, and a market where every offer we made lost to someone who could move faster. By the sixth house, we had learned what ordinary buyers give up in order to compete. We waived the inspection. I have owned that decision every day since.
We closed on an outdated house that, from what we were told, was in good condition. We had never stood in it. Not once. We were a thousand miles away, and the camera was our eyes.
What we did have was an FHA appraisal. It said the roof, viewed from the ground, was in good condition with no evidence of deterioration. It said the basement was dry. It said the mechanical systems appeared to be in proper working order. Its entire list of required repairs came down to peeling paint on the window frames.
Sit where we sat for a second. We had given up our own inspection. We had raised the prior insurance claims on the property and been told the appraiser reviews those items. And here was a federal minimum-standards report saying: dry basement, good roof, working systems, paint the trim. It didn’t erase the risk we’d taken. It contained it.
Then we moved in.
Under the landing at our front door, the platform all five of us crossed every day, were tree trunks. Six or eight of them, bark still on, holding up the house.
In September we paid for the inspection we should have had in May. And one night, going back through the appraisal page by page (reading it the way you read a document you no longer trust) we found one of those tree trunks standing in the background of the appraiser’s own photograph. Open space, nothing in front of it. We didn’t have to enlarge the image.