A cottage in the city.



If we ever move out of our house, I will pull this section of trim from the wall and take it with us. It's so precious to me, and I imagine it will be to Lucy one day, as well. 


The development around us since we arrived, and even before then, has been unreal. We live smack dab in the middle of some of the best areas of the city and, in the last twenty years or so, this part of Atlanta has become a really nice place to live. This wasn't always the case, as our neighbors (who are only the second owners of their 70-year old house) have told us. It survived a few decades of violence and crime. But with age comes interest in renovation. And with interest in renovation comes interest in developing new properties that fit the character of the area. And that brings in lots of first-time home buyers. 

Our house - which was first owned by the brother of the man who built our neighbor's home - was built in 1946, just after the end of World War II when business was booming. We love it so much. It's tiny and cozy, with beautiful hardwoods, plaster walls, a fireplace that doesn't work, and a pecan tree in the backyard. It's all that we imagined when we decided to purchase a home, and more than we ever believed we would find. If it hadn't been a short sale, we could have never afforded it. But here we are, two and a half years later, in a house that has become a home. The only home, in fact, that Lucy has ever known.

We have received two letters of interest from developers hoping to buy our house. The second came just this week. We're interested in selling because we're young, Lucy hasn't started school yet (I'm thinking of homeschooling, but still not 100%), and the money would help us pay off our student loans and invest more in our future. I don't know if we will sell, or if these offers are even worth considering, but it's nice to think that we have options.

For now, though, I am not ready to pack up and go. These walls have been somewhat of a lighthouse for us as we learn to navigate the waters of marriage and parenthood together. They've held Lucy close at night while she sleeps and protected us from harm. They've listened to laughter and prayer, shouts and slammed doors, baby babble and whispers of love. Who knows what else they've witnessed before us? I often wonder if another young mother once stooped down to scribble her daughter's height on the wall. Maybe it's a record buried somewhere beneath the layers of paint, next to holes in the wall that once hung family portraits.

I have no way of knowing how long we'll be here, in this tiny cottage in the city, but I'm glad we've had a part in its story. And I'm glad it has had a part in ours.


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