My husband has a dream to build a home. Sometimes I think that would be great, everything would be fresh and new and made exactly how we want it. Call me sentimental, but the problem is, I love this old house.
This house saw our first days as a married couple. It has the sweat and tears of our labor as we have transformed it into something of our own. We’ve repainted, demolished, and redone, floored, decorated, and loved every square inch of this house in order to make it a home.
And when we brought each of our daughters home, the walls heard their cries and eventually their first giggles.
We’ve spent sleepless nights under our roof, rocking babies and dreaming of their futures. As our girls have grown, they’ve learned and experienced, played with friends, made mistakes, and had great triumphs all on this piece of dirt.
And when our children have moved out and onto bigger adventures, I want to look around and feel those moments as rawly as I did when they first happened.
I want my kids to always have a safe place to land in the midst of the chaos, somewhere familiar and warm.
So when my husband talks again about building a new house, I’ll ask for us to stay here. Because this home may be old and well-loved, but it holds our memories in every crevice.