Glowing sunlight streamed in through the two sash windows to my left, bouncing off the modest white walls and across the forest green trim. I looked around the room I had chosen for myself. It was the biggest of the three upstairs, with a walk-in closet in the back and an old metal thumb latch instead of a doorknob.

“Remember girls, don’t pick rooms yet, nothing is definite.” My mom’s cautious words from earlier rang in my head as I took in the space before me. I looked down at the soft, off-white carpeting. On my right was a large, blank wall with various nail-sized holes and a single red string hanging from a tack. Despite my mother’s warning, something just felt right here.

Weeks earlier when my parents had told my two sisters and me that we might be moving, I had broken down in tears. Leaving the only home I had ever known sounded so terrifying that I decided to hate this new house without even seeing it. For all of the five years, I had been alive, my family lived in the same little yellow house. It had just enough woods behind it to play in, but not enough to get lost in. Walking into the greyish-blue cape that afternoon, I fully intended to hate everything I saw. Now though, standing in that peacefully bright room, I abandoned these thoughts. Something about this room just felt natural, like everything was finally in its place.  

Taking one last look at my possible new room, I giddily darted next door to the room my sister had chosen for herself. It was almost as big as mine and just as white with two skylights feeding afternoon sunlight onto the carpet.

“Look!” She exclaimed, “There’s an old coat rack in my closet!” Eva grabbed an odd looking, collapsible piece of wood, and held it out proudly for me to examine.

“Woah!” I marveled at the wooden contraption folding and unfolding it like an accordion. The hatred I had once felt for this house and the idea of moving, in general, had been melted away like snow in spring.

To me, this place was magical. Every room held a new collection of scents and sights for me to take in. By the time we made it outside, I had forgotten all about my anger. Out back sat a brick patio that was overgrown with lush, green weeds. Scattered across the leaf-covered yard were various objects including old shoes and discarded dog toys left by the previous inhabitants. Behind the backyard sat a couple of run-down sheds and an old, bright red barn. It was a landscapers nightmare, but my paradise. To me these things weren’t just junk and items in need of fixing, they were stories. Behind each old shoe, each neglected shed, and each and every mossy brick, there were lives and stories I will never know about. To me, this was fascinating.

Since that day a little over nine years ago, the little blue cape on South Road has come a long way. The once empty and forgotten sheds now house gardening tools and six lovely chickens. The old, bright red barn was given new life in the form of two horses. The patio still needs work, but it’s a little bit more tamed than that day I first saw it. As for the room with the red string on the wall, it has been painted, decorated, and filled with a questionable amount of fourth-grade art projects, but ultimately remains mine. After nine years, it’s nearly impossible to imagine life without this house. It’s almost funny to think I could have been so close minded about it.