It’s been a year since we moved into our home. Since we stopped feeling like nomads. Since we emptied my dad’s basement of our boxes and possessions. Since Mya and I picked out the perfect color of pink paint for her new room. I grew up in the same house for almost 20 years. After Mya was born we lived in 3 houses in 3 years. I still remember our first night in our new home. Boxes filled our living room, paintings sat leaning against empty walls, I was 7 months pregnant with Ellie, I felt the calm peacefulness of being sedentary. I love this house. I love the mismatched plastic toys in the backyard. I love the kitchen that’s way too small. I love listening to Mya talk to her stuffed animals before she goes to sleep. I love sitting on our deck with Travis watching the sunset, how each night seems more beautiful than the last. Having always grown up with a home I never realized how much it meant to me. I don’t know if we’ll live in this house forever, but I know it’s special meaning in my heart. When I repainted our bathroom a few weeks ago, Mya and I wrote all our names on the wall surrounded by a heart. As I painted over it, hiding our recognition, I knew it would always secretly be there, our family and our heart hidden amongst the walls of this little house, this special home.
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