About a week and a half ago, my little family packed up and moved from our Windsor Terrace apartment of the last 4 years.
Even though we were so excited to move to our new home, it was impossible not to feel a little sad.
Our studio apartment on the second floor was the first place Tom and I lived together. It was cozy and adorable. There we were newlyweds, attempted to regularly use our magic bullet, experienced an earthquake, ate vegan Big Macs, drank gin & tonics, watched (now I would say “suffered through”) Battlestar Galactica, and had our first Christmas tree.
After almost two years there and almost a year of marriage, we started talking about our more long-term plans. We couldn’t have a baby in this apartment. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we didn’t have to leave our neighborhood, or better yet, our building?
As if on cue, one day when I was leaving for work, I noticed our downstairs neighbors moving out. I ran back upstairs and asked Tom to speak with our landlady about it. A month later, we moved to the first floor. A month after that, I found out I was pregnant.
This was where we became a family.
When we found out I was pregnant again, we knew we were going to have to move.
Willow became a toddler, my new baby grew, and after an impossibly short time, we found the perfect place to live.
I know it was only a rental, but I hope the next tenants to live in our old apartment will be able to feel how much love there was there. I’m sad that Willow won’t remember our first home, but we’ll certainly have stories for her.
Thank you, 1908. We’ll miss you.