This was my home.
This is where I grew up, where I learnt to read, write, express myself. This is where I learnt that it is perfectly fine to just be me. I lived here. I cried here. I stared for hours, days out of these windows. I discovered every crooked corner. I had first kisses, last kisses, missed kisses. It was an incredible place to grow up, and the best base to come back to from Bristol.
It felt so unsafe packing everything away, not being able to come back to this place that I felt so secure. My stomach was aching and my heart was breaking. Thinking about never going back made me feel sick. How could I never set foot in this house again?
The rooms gradually started looking bigger and bigger as we emptied them out.
I felt so angry at the people who would be moving in to our home. They will never love it as much as we do. They won't be there taking care of the place, as it'll be a holiday home. My mum said something which changed my mind. She didn't want to meet the new owners, or know who they are, but she didn't feel any bad feelings towards them anymore. She wanted to give the house with love, because it was a house full of love. It made me realise that I didn't want anyone to be unhappy there, I just wanted the house to be full of smiles.
As we loaded the car up for the last time, the wind began to howl. Maybe the house was heartbroken too.
It didn't feel real leaving - it still doesn't. Every time I go back to Devon I expect to go over the hill and down into the valley and up the narrow street to that familiar door, where the cats will greet me.
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