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when you fall in love with a house

At the beginning of February I fell in love. That’s a lie; actually, I fell in love in October 2016. I fell – hook, line and sinker – for a Victorian end of terrace house in our village. I walk past the house at least three times a week to drop Busby off at preschool, and it lured me in with its beautiful brick work. It’s solid wood front door. And it’s Downton door bell.

But it ‘Sold TBC’ pretty swiftly and the dream of living in a Victorian house with huge bay windows was gone… until February this year, when the sale fell through and it came back on the market.

I had a viewing booked within a day of seeing the ‘For Sale’ sign go up. 

I was so nervous. What if it wasn’t as beautiful as I imagined it would be inside? What if it needed too much work doing? What if we couldn’t afford to buy it?!

As I wandered around the house, imagining our children playing and us chilling in the modernised kitchen we were going to install, I fell even further. This was the house I had always dreamt we’d live in. The forever home. The big Christmases with the tree in the bay window. The BBQs on the patio in summer. Space for my own office.

But then sensibility came along in the shape of my husband. The one who grounds my crazy, romanticised side! And he loved the house. But he knew we couldn’t afford to buy it AND do all the work necessary. He pointed out the damp and subsidence. We would need help from someone like The Law House conveyancing solicitors. He reminded me of all the work we’ve already put into our lovely house.

So we left. And I cried. And I mourned a dream. And every time I passed the house, I felt a twinge of sadness. It was a feeling akin to bumping into an ex after recently breaking up – the awkward looks and thoughts of ‘you’re still quite lovely’ through the rose-tinted glasses.

Gradually, it has become easier. It’s ‘Sold TBC’ once more. And sometimes, when I think of the fireplaces in the bedrooms, and the original built in cupboards, I feel sad that we didn’t try to make it work. But then I look around our house; the children’s bedrooms I lovingly stripped and painted while 8 months pregnant. Photographs I’ve taken, on the walls. The room where I gave birth to H-Bear. And I’m reminded of how our house is pretty wonderful too – even if it doesn’t have a doorbell like Downton Abbey.


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