Last year’s September the 7th was, “Mooving day,” as Lucien called it.
After having spent only a year in the terraced house on no. 9, our landlord wanted it back and we found ourselves looking for a new house.
So this year’s September the 7th became, “Signing the new coontract day.”
Hmmm, doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?
“Good riddance,” we thought after the initial shock of having to move had set in.
Because despite our best efforts, we had never managed to make the house into a home.
This is why I never wrote about it, even though I said I would.
Or why I never published pictures of what it looked like.
Ultimately, the 2-bedroom terraced house on no. 9 was just a house we stored ourselves and our stuff in, but it wasn’t a home.
It wasn’t that it wasn’t a nice house.
It was.
It was just not the right house for us.
Home is where
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Too many decisions had already been made before we moved here.
Too many rooms to heat, spending weeks back and forth with our landlord to get the boiler to actually do its job.
Too many recessed spotlights in the ceiling, illuminating all of our furniture in a bright antiseptic light.
Too many visits by the landlord to check on the house.
Once a year is fine.
Maybe even twice a year.
But checking on the house every three months is ridiculous and disruptive.
And we were still—are still—finding our bearings again after the year and a half that’s been, with all its ups and downs.
Because of this, the house never became the home it could have been.
But maybe it was for the best.
Maybe we needed a house to store ourselves and our stuff in but nothing more?
Maybe we weren’t ready to start the next chapter back then?
Maybe we are now?
Living inside no. 71 doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as living inside no. 9.
But unlike the terraced house on no. 9, this house is going to be a place to call home.
And I think we’re ready for the next chapter.
Wherever it takes us.