There’s no better antidote to the sticky sweetness of Valentine’s Day than renovating the breakup house. That’s our nickname for our recently vacated rental property.

Most of our renters aren’t married—which isn’t unusual these days. For some, “shacking up” is a trial run for tying the knot; just as renting offers a preview of home ownership, without the commitment of a 20-year mortgage. Couples soon learn if they can actually live with the limited capacity of the hot water tank, or their partner’s inability to replace the toilet paper roll.

Our first tenants were young professionals whom we expected would soon buy a house of their own. Instead, they split up. In the division of assets, neither wanted the cozy three-bedroom where their relationship had sputtered.

Their successors were even younger, but came with impeccable references. Though they were “good on paper,” their relationship barely outlasted their lease.

We took a risk with the next candidate, a young man who had declared bankruptcy. He was disarmingly forthcoming about his stubborn refusal to pay bills that his ex had racked up, landing him in the clutches of creditors. We figured that could happen to anyone. What’s more, his new wife and child had ties to the neighbourhood. We thought we had finally found reliable, long-term tenants.

Within the year they had broken up. His wife came back to clean, tears streaming down her face, while the bounder used her car to move all of his possessions.

I started to wonder if the house should come with a disclaimer. My father suggested a fresh marketing angle: For rent, 3-bdrm home, guaranteed to drive your spouse away. He pitched it as a selling feature. My mother was not amused.

We rented to a birthday-party magician whose chief criterion was adequate storage for his illusions. Not long after, his girlfriend staged a disappearing act.

Next came an unmarried couple with two small children. This classy guy gave notice he was leaving, but didn’t bother to share that information with his family. By the time he moved out, he had punched several holes in the drywall; ripped a two-foot crater in a plywood door; and sawed apart the basement stairs. We’ve come to accept— there is no “why.”

After extensive renovations, we tried anew. The latest tenants took possession a month before their wedding. Given the house’s track record, we naturally worried if their relationship would weather the stress. But they bucked the trend. For the first time, our renters moved in as boyfriend and girlfriend, and moved out as husband and wife. They departed abruptly, making off with the light bulbs; but thoughtfully leaving behind a deck loaded with dog excrement.

We’ve decided to reword our ad for the breakup house: cozy 3-bdrm for sale. We don’t want it anymore!

robin@wellingtontimes.ca