Because closings aren't hard enough already.
Title Insurance Tantrums: How to Turn a Simple House Into a Full-Blown Development Nightmare by 3PM
It’s 3:00 p.m. on closing day. I’m in the war room—fully caffeinated, three phones buzzing, inbox flashing red, pretending to look calm while my blood pressure does backflips. We’re on the 1-yard line. One signature away from closing. The champagne is chilling.
Then I get that call.
“So… the title insurer says this isn’t a house anymore. It’s a development site. They want a commercial policy now.”
Excuse me?
What does that even mean? Did the house grow a tower overnight? Did a crane show up uninvited? No. Same structure. Same land. Same bloody driveway. But now—suddenly—it’s not a home, it’s a concept. A dream. An Excel sheet. A zoning headache. And title insurance wants to "reassess."
Translation: My lawyer forgot to order title insurance until the absolute last second, and when they finally picked up the phone to do it, the underwriter said, “Oh… this guy’s not buying a home, he’s buying intentions.”
Welcome to development life, where even the f***ing insurance has existential questions.
This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve seen money go missing in transit. I’ve seen liens pop up from 1993. I’ve seen a title flag for “potential heritage value” because some guy on Reddit thought the porch looked cool. But this? This was a first.
What started as a “standard closing” quickly devolved into an improv routine with the title insurer:
“What’s the intended use?”
Residential, for now.
“But your name is DealCore Properties?”
So?
“And it’s zoned RD?”
Yeah. R for "Really don’t do this to me right now."
“Are you developing it?”
Eventually. Maybe. Someday. After the world stops spinning.
Apparently, even thinking about development is enough to get your file escalated to “Commercial Policy Division.” Which means more paperwork, more delays, and a premium that jumps like it just got handed a construction cost index.
Meanwhile, the seller is losing their mind.
The lender is pinging for wire confirmations.
And I’m standing in a fluorescent-lit office trying not to throw a monitor through a window.
For those lucky enough to never have experienced this…
Title insurance is supposed to be the one thing that just works. You pay the fee. You get your policy. It sits in a drawer collecting dust, unless something explode, like a rogue easement, a mystery mortgage, or a historical encroachment from 1976.
But here’s the catch:
If your lawyer waits until closing day to actually order the thing, the insurer has every right to freak out. Because now they’re underwriting in real time, with no runway, and your file smells like risk
.
So what did we do?
We stalled. We spun. We begged.
We offered explanations like a kid caught with fireworks in his backpack:
“It’s technically a house!”
“There are curtains!”
“It has a mailbox!”
None of it worked.
In the end, we had to switch to a commercial policy, re-paper the file, and pray the underwriter had eaten lunch and wasn’t in a mood.
We closed—eventually. But not before wasting six hours, 32 emails, two ulcer pills, and one full apology text to the seller that read simply:
“Our bad. But also… it’s not not your fault either.”
Final Thoughts From the Edge of Sanity
If you're ever buying anything that even smells like a future development site:
1. Order the damn title insurance early.
Like, when you first get the PSA. Before the ink dries.
2. Tell your lawyer it’s not just a house.
Even if it still has bedsheets.
3. Assume the title insurer will be suspicious.
Because they will be. They always are.
4. Budget extra time and money if you’re buying under a numbered company.
Apparently, corporations don’t live in houses. Who knew?
Closing days are like blind dates.
You know you're supposed to show up on time, dressed nicely, and hoping for the best.
But sometimes your lawyer forgets the reservation… and now you're stuck explaining why your “modest single-family dwelling” suddenly looks like a 14-storey mixed-use podium with retail at grade.
Cheers to survival. And next time—order the policy early.