When a house becomes a home

For 17 years now I've wondered at the light that shines in through the high windows, a moon rising that leaves squares of pale across the floorboards. Each month for as long as I can remember I've looked up and thought, look at that moon. I've never taken it for granted.

Nor have I taken for granted how a home can shape a family.

In the weeks before the sale I had "feedback" from the agents telling me how prospective buyers thought the yard was not big enough, or the bedrooms were too small, or the living areas were not "open" enough, or the neighbours were too close, or it was too close to Lyneham and too far away from Turner.

It's killed me. Who were these people passing judgment on the home where my family was raised?

Where my friends have gathered for drinks or Tupperware parties or celebrations of new jobs and new children?

Where we'd drink at Tilleys or buy our meat from Geoff and the boys.

Where love has been declared or denied? And found all over again.

Where neighbours, people with nothing in common apart from an address, have gathered sharing stories and beers and watched our children grow up beside each other, playing cricket in the cul de sac or staging musical performances? Where strangers have grown to actually love each other.

I've always thought the definition between house and home is an interesting one.

A house is some walls, a roof, a street frontage. A home is a place where memories are made.

Where all emotions, love, hate, happiness, regret, sadness, joy, all reside. This house has always been a home. For better and for worse.

I was trawling through some old photos, getting ready for the move and I found one I love. My ex-husband and my daughter planting the pittosporums along the back fence. It was the week I was in hospital with a newborn son.

Every time I need to get the hedge trimmed I think there's a lifetime of growth there. That's how much has changed and moved on. And for the most part that has been for the better.

Life does that to you, and before you even notice, little pink birthday parties (in that backyard that some people think is too small) have evolved into gatherings of drunk teenagers. And instead of cleaning glitter and sequins off the grass you're picking up empty beer bottles. And that's the most perfect thing.

The kids are being brave and pretending they're not too sad about the whole move. They've had to deal with too many moves beyond their control in their young lives, and they've done that with grace and humour and a maturity beyond their years. I'm so grateful for that.

But so much in their lives has happened here in O'Connor. Christmases and birthdays, parties and playdates, first steps and first loves, change, too many changes.

And sometimes not for the best. But this place has always been home.

Which is why I'll miss it with my whole heart. It's not the house where I lived with my ex-husband.

It's the place where we both raised a family, where we loved and laughed and watched as two amazing humans grew up before our very eyes.

And when things changed, this home became my sanctuary, the only place where I felt safe and where I felt my children could find some solace and comfort if that's what they needed.

Simple fact is I didn't want to sell. I would live here forever if I could, that was my plan. But this house is now someone else's home and I'm ready for a fresh start.

So here's to everyone who ever lived here.

Or spent nights here after too many drinks and nice dinners. Or popped in with their kids for a swim and a sausage on a hot summer's night. Or a Tupperware party, or a Halloween dissection of books, or a Christmas night under the most glorious tree in the suburb.

To everyone who has a memory of home, wherever that may be.

And here's to making many more memories in my next home.