big girls dont cry

A few months ago, after two years of searching for a home that would shelter us through the next chapters in our life, we found a spot on earth that was nothing like our sweet suburbian cottage or the sleek city condo where we have rested our heads.  It was also nothing like the old white romantic farmhouse on a hill overlooking manicures lawns and gardens that I had been dreaming about, and that never seemed to show up anywhere near our price range on my realtor.com app that I religiously checked every night before bed.  In fact, I’d never even considered a log cabin as a possible housing option.  And if there’s any decor style that I’ve abhorred has never resonated with me, it’s the rustic/lodge look.  And yet, ninety days ago we put our little yellow cottage on the market; two days later we accepted a full-price offer; six weeks later I tearfully pulled out of the driveway for the last time and began the hour-and-a-half long drive to the country.

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