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I was walking up the stairs to our second floor Saturday afternoon and it felt like our house was hugging me tight.

I know what that sounds like, I do, but I can’t help it. As the sun sets it busts through the glass window blocks of the bathroom on the second floor and warms the sitting area outside of it. And I don’t know if it’s the carpet or the fact that the house is 86-years-old but there is this clean, warm smell that, when I hit the top steps, envelopes me.

Particularly noteworthy is that it was at this spot, minus the sun and smell and warmth, that Scott and I looked at each other and knew this was the house we’d make our home.

We’ve had many, many people ask us if we regret the decision to buy a home. This makes me shake my head so vigorously I worry it will fall off in the process. We love our home. I mean love. It is cozy, quiet and in good shape. It’s old and has character and has lots of light and friendly neighbors and, really, just everything we could have asked for. I feel like we’ve lived here for much, much longer than just a little more than four months.

I walk to work daydreaming about the flowers I’m going to plant. It dawned on me that I can plant a lilac bush if I want, which makes me ridiculously happy. We’re sprucing up the three-season room next month, along with the porch. Probably not much will go into this summer’s gardening – we’d like to live in the space a bit before doing too much. We have removed all of the ivy, and we’ll cut down the very ugly tree in the middle of the two bushes out front, and we’ll install flower boxes under the windows, but that’s about it.

This has been the best decision we’ve ever made. It’s a happy place.