The other day, Linda, the real-estate agent whom my wife and I used to buy our home, called me out of the blue. It was the first anniversary of our closing. I had forgotten. She had not. As she asked about my family and how we were liking the house, I remembered her salty, knowing, singsong voice. She’d been a comfort to us, offering advice during some tough moments when I was stressed out and wrangling with the sellers. I’m pretty sure there was a point when I had broken down in tears. She’d also kicked the tires on the asking price, abrasively noting — in front of the seller’s agent…