Dream Home or Debt Trap? Our Lisbon Family’s Dilemma
Dream Home or Debt Trap? Our Lisbon Family’s Dilemma
The sun spills through the window of our cozy rental in Lisbon, casting soft shadows on the wooden floor. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee from a chipped mug, while my two-year-old daughter, Lily, giggles over her oatmeal. My wife, Emma, is scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing at me with that look—half curiosity, half concern. We’ve been in Portugal for three years, having left our small hometown in rural England for a fresh start. I earn a decent salary, about €6,000 a month after taxes, working remotely for a tech firm. Our expenses are modest: €1,000 for rent, €200 for our car, and a bit more for groceries and necessities. We’re not big spenders—no fancy dinners, no lavish vacations. This lifestyle lets us save around €4,500 monthly, and we’ve built a nest egg of €50,000, with €20,000 in a savings account and €30,000 invested in a small startup, withdrawable within a month.
The question nagging at me is whether we should take a leap and borrow €150,000 to buy a house. We’ve always dreamed of owning a small place with a garden, somewhere Lily can grow up with space to play. Apartments aren’t for us; we crave the grounded feel of a house. But the idea of such a large loan feels like a weight on my chest—especially with the unpredictability of life. What if one of us gets sick? What if my job isn’t as stable as it seems?
I set my mug down and look at Emma. “Do you think we’re ready for this?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intended. She doesn’t answer right away, but her eyes tell me she’s wrestling with the same fears and hopes. The decision feels monumental, and I can’t shake the sense that it could define our family’s future.
We’re in Porto now, visiting a real estate agent who’s showing us a charming house on the outskirts. It’s everything we’ve imagined: a stone facade, a small garden with a lemon tree, and enough room for Lily to run wild. The price tag, though, is a gut punch—€200,000. With our savings, we’d need a €150,000 loan, and the monthly payments would eat up nearly half my salary. As we walk through the house, my excitement battles a growing knot in my stomach. Emma squeezes my hand, her smile strained. “It’s perfect,” she whispers, but I hear the hesitation in her voice.
Back at our hotel that evening, we sit on the balcony overlooking the Douro River. The city lights shimmer, but the mood is heavy. I pull out my laptop and start crunching numbers, my fingers hesitant on the keys. The loan would stretch us thin, leaving little room for emergencies. I think about my dad, who fell ill unexpectedly last year, and how quickly medical bills piled up for my parents. What if that happens to us? Emma notices my tension and sits beside me, her hand resting on my arm. “We could make it work,” she says, but her voice wavers.
Then, a twist hits me. The agent calls—another buyer has made an offer, and we have 24 hours to decide. My heart races. The pressure feels suffocating, like the walls of our dream are closing in. I look at Emma, her eyes wide with panic and hope, and I realize this moment could change everything. Do we jump, or do we walk away?
We didn’t take the house in Porto. The deadline came and went, and we let it slip, choosing caution over impulse. A month later, we’re in Barcelona, staying with friends who’ve invited us to clear our heads. Their home is warm and cluttered, filled with laughter and the chaos of their two kids. One evening, over a glass of wine in their backyard, our friend Clara shares her story. They bought their house with a big loan years ago, and while it was tough, they managed by cutting back and taking on side gigs. “It’s not just about the money,” she says. “It’s about what the house means for your family.”
Her words stick with me. I start to see our situation differently—not as a race to buy a house, but as a journey to build a home. Back in Lisbon, I research other options. We find a smaller house in a quieter suburb, priced at €160,000. It’s not perfect—no lemon tree—but it’s within reach with a smaller loan of €110,000. The payments would be manageable, leaving room for savings and emergencies. Emma and I walk the neighborhood, imagining Lily playing in the tiny yard. For the first time, the dream feels grounded, not reckless.
The tension from Porto fades, replaced by a cautious optimism. I realize that saying no to the first house wasn’t a failure; it was a step toward clarity. We’re not just buying a house—we’re choosing stability and a future we can sustain.
Back in our Lisbon rental, Emma and I sit down with a bottle of wine and a notepad. We’ve decided to make an offer on the smaller house. It’s not the grand dream we had in Porto, but it feels right—manageable, ours. The loan will stretch us, but with our savings and careful budgeting, we can handle it. I feel a quiet relief, like I’ve been holding my breath for months and can finally exhale.
Lily is asleep in her crib, and the house is still, save for the hum of the city outside. Emma leans against me, her head on my shoulder. “We’re doing this for her, aren’t we?” she says, and I nod. It’s not just about the house; it’s about giving Lily a place to grow, a home where we can weather life’s storms. The fear of the loan lingers, but it’s balanced by a sense of purpose.
I’d love to hear from others who’ve faced this choice. How did you decide whether to borrow for a home?
