We weren't looking, exactly. We had a list of things we wanted in a house and another list of things we'd compromise on, and we had been losing politely at viewings since January. And then on a Sunday in March, the realtor sent through a listing she said she had been holding back for us — a small Victorian terrace on a quiet street in the north end, built in 1898, with one south-facing window in the kitchen that hit the table at exactly four in the afternoon.
We stayed too long at the viewing. We came back twice. We put in an offer on the Tuesday and heard yes on the Wednesday, and the four weeks between then and moving day were the longest four weeks of our adult lives — counting boxes, naming rooms we hadn't lived in yet, lying awake at 2am running through which of our friends had drills.
The boxes are mostly in the right rooms. The kettle is on the counter, which is the only thing it really needed to be. There is a list of things to fix taped to the inside of the cupboard door, and a smaller list of things to plant taped underneath it. We're going to be very slow about all of it. Come over. The door is open. Bring whatever you have in the fridge.
With love, from the kitchen table at 14 Hazel Lane —