THE GOOD REALTOR

In partnership with

🖋️ The Good Realtor: “Memoirs of a Real Estate Agent”

House.Roc Entertainment & Star 86 Studios
Written by: Filipa Rodrigues Abreu

🌟 Editor's Note

Please be advised this content is for mature audiences. Regina Young and “Young Realty” are figments of the authors imagination. This is a Human-AI Hybrid Creation. Stay Creative :)

[Jazz plays faintly —]

REGINA (into the dark):
They say every house has a story. So does every agent. And mine?

(pause — she lights a cigarette)

Mine’s built on heartbreak, blueprints, and a stack of unsuspecting closing gifts.

Some stories are told in ink. Mine, was written in smoke…

I was the kind who’d answer your call at midnight — the glow of my phone lighting up the dark like a confession booth. I respected a man’s carpets the way I respected his word — sacred, polished, and easily scuffed. I wiped mirrors clean, straightened the sign, fluffed the pillows no one would ever sit on…
Always in heels, still pretending it wasn’t personal.

(She exhales a laugh — bitter, then gone.)

I took the ethics course twice — as if integrity were a language I needed to master.
I know every zoning code in three counties, can quote lending guidelines like scripture.
People trust me — with their dogs, their keys, their Wi-Fi passwords.
The kind of trust only the decent ones earn… and the wolves take for sport.

“Not on my watch,” I’d say.
And I meant it.

I fought for the underdog — for the ones who still believed the system worked.
But when the listings came out, my name was never on the sign.

They call me after the crash — when the deal falls apart, when the closer they chose goes cold.
“Regina, we got screwed! We’re out of funds!”
And I fix it anyway.
I always do.

I study market trends the way fortune tellers study palms.
I know which inspectors lie, which foundations will crack, which marriages will not last.

They all call when they need saving.
They never call when it’s time to celebrate.

(She sets the glass down, steadies herself.)

The week my marriage ended, I still showed up.
Heels sharp. Lockbox ready. Smile like armor.

Divorce Decree in one hand, buyers agreements in the other.
You’d never know I’d just lost my home…

I had showings at noon.

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(She takes a long drag of her cigarrette)

I helped my sister buy hers.
Ran the numbers.
Negotiated the inspection repairs like it was personal salvation.
She cried on the porch, said, “You’re my rock.”
Then posted a photo with the listing agent.
Caption: “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

(She smiles — small, tragic.)

No tag.
No mention.
No thanks.

That’s the thing about being good —
you can disappear beautifully.

(pause — she walks toward the desk, straightens a photo frame that isn’t there)

Clients come for the rules.
They want to know how to look strong on paper,
how not to get played.
Then they sign with someone flashier.
Someone who sells dreams instead of due diligence.

Other agents steal my decks, my words, my tone.
Post my voice under their name in bold.
And when I had something to say…?

“Notice of License Release.”

(She stubs the cigarette out — smoke curls like a ghost.)

They go with their friends —

Being good gets you the midnight texts,
the “quick questions,” the favors wrapped in flattery.
It gets you leaned on and quietly erased.

But it also gets you…

(She steps into the light — stronger now.)

Ready.

I’m the one who catches the clause you would’ve missed — the one that would’ve ruined you.
The one who makes you look good without asking for credit.
The one copied, consulted, confided in — quickly erased.

Being good gets me the 11 p.m. “quick questions,”
the Sunday “tiny favors,”

The fake gratitude from people who’d sell their conscience for commission.

It gets me called when things fall apart.
It gets banned from the parties and the group chats and the weekend brunches… Gets me laughed at.

Being a good realtor gets you a reputation for being usable.
A file full of thank-you notes.
A front-row seat while someone else takes your bow.

But it also gets you ready.

It gives you the eyes to see the cracks before they spread.
The calm to stand in chaos and still know where the keys are.

Being a good realtor doesn’t always get you the listing.
It gets you the legacy.

You start to see the cracks before the walls fall.
You know which smiles are paint,
which promises are termite-ridden.
It gives you a backbone.

(beat — thunder outside)

And when the smoke clears — and it always does —
I’ll still be the last one standing.
Heels on.
Keys in hand.
Door open.

Ready to begin again.

(lights fade, lockbox clicks, jazz fades out.)

In this town, nothing closes clean.
You pay the inspector, the lender, the dream.
And somewhere in the shadows, the good ones keep working —It buys another night, another line, another lie beautifully told…

Tip the good ones — we keep the keys.

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In this town, nothing closes clean.
You pay the inspector, the lender, the dream.
And somewhere in the shadows, the good ones keep working —It buys another night, another line, another lie beautifully told…

Tip the good ones — we keep the keys.

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