Moving day feels surreal.
Benedict and I load the last of our boxes into the car, standing in the driveway of the sprawling mansion for what I know is the last time. The enormity of the place feels almost laughable now, with its massive columns and manicured lawns.
I remember feeling like a stranger in this house — like a guest tiptoeing around someone else’s life. But the cozy little cottage we’re moving to…that feels different. It feels like ours.
It’s a far cry from the mansion’s grandeur, sure, but there’s a warmth in its simplicity that I’ve already started to fall in love with.
As we pull up to the cottage, I take in the sight of it with a mix of nerves and excitement. The white paint is a little chipped, and there’s a tiny porch with just enough space for a couple of chairs and maybe a potted plant or two.
Ivy trails over one corner of the roof, and flowers grow wild along the stone path. I glance over at Benedict, and he gives me a small, almost shy smile.
“This is home now,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my heart swell.
Once we’re inside, I’m struck by the cozy warmth of the place. The living room is small but bright, with a single bay window that lets in a flood of light. The walls are painted a soft, creamy white, and there’s an old brick fireplace that looks like it’s seen countless winters.