This inconspicuous house. This plain, tiny terrace has been my home for the last eighteen months. This delightful dwelling has given my son and I a place to call our own. A place to feel safe and begin a new journey together. Number sixteen King Street, a little damp, a little small, a little cluttered, has been ours, entirely ours. It has heard our cries, felt our loneliness, held our laughter, known our joy and seen us thrive within it's walls.
Our little home brought us back to the village of my youth, close to my family and the greetings of friendly faces from my past. We have been nestled amongst the green luxury of nature and cloaked in loveliness of the familiar. I remember the first night we slept here. Remember lying in the dark, with my slumbering child beside me, feeling light with the glory of tranquility and excitement in anticipation for my future.
That future is before us, we are set to move next week. With each box I pack, I am aware that I am dismantling our home and I am filled with some sadness. Yet this home has given me strength, a new determination and a heart full of happiness. So whilst that most dreaded of calls, from my Landlady, made my heart sink at the thought of moving out and on, I know that it is time. Time to say goodbye to the house that became the home that rescued me.
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