The greatest love affair of my life isn't with a person, but a house. It may seem shallow, but really it's far from it. My great grandfather built this house with his bare hands in the late 1930's. The living room I sit in while I write this is the same living room I sat in when my grandfather brought me here to visit his mother, my great grandma. She always kept a candy dish full of candy on her coffee table, the same coffee table that sits right in front of me now. The solid oak floors beneath my feet are the same oak floors that sat underneath the feet of several generations of my family. This house has witnessed my history. This roof has sheltered those who came before me and who made me who I am today.

I believe I was around 5 years old when I told my grandpa on a warm spring afternoon that this is where I wanted to live when I grew up. This is where I wanted to raise my own family.

Time passed as it always does. Family members passed as they unfortunately always do. I came back to the house, the house came back to me. It was exactly the same as I remembered. The furniture. The dark wood walls and floors. The long sunroom on the second floor. It glided from my memories into present day.

The work it required to be liveable again was overwhelming. The costs were staggering. I powered through it all, fueled only by a love that refused to die.

Tonight I sit here with my partner, our bellies full from a meal I prepared in the same kitchen my great grandmother prepared meals for her family. White smoke billows from the chimney. We are safe and warm and happy.

I am finally home.