The House on Norman Terrace
It was supposed to be my forever home.
Terraced brick and borrowed dreams— young love and reckless dreams.
nothing fancy, but mine.
Mine to paint, to fill, to heal in.
Mine to grow a life that stayed.
Seventeen years.
God, I was so young when I first turned the key.
Still soft, still hoping.
Still believing that love, once planted, would never rot.
But the house…
it saw too much.
It watched my heart break in silence,
once,
then again.
It held the phone calls I’ll never forget, the hurt, the screams, the pain.
By the time I’d caught my breath,
grief had already moved into the hallway,
set up camp by the front door
and refused to leave.
Still, the house stayed.
It cradled me through the wreckage.
It watched me cry over empty rooms
and full ones that felt lonelier.
It held Billie—my cat, my shadow,
my comfort when nothing else made sense.
I got her here.
We made this home together.
And then—
Matilda.
My daughter. My wild heart.
Her laughter filled these walls
like sunlight through a dirty window.
She took her first steps here.
Lost her first tooth on that stair.
Spoke her first truths
in rooms that had once only echoed mine.
There was joy here.
Not always loud—
sometimes quiet, sometimes hard-won—
but real.
And now, Joel.
Hope has crept in again,
soft-footed and brave,
like maybe the future isn’t lost after all.
But this house…
this house is heavy with ghosts.
They sleep in the corners.
They breathe in the wardrobe.
They echo in the pipes
when the night is too quiet.
It’s time to let go.
To stop gripping the past like a lifeline.
This house served me.
It sheltered me.
But I’ve outgrown the pain it holds.
I want more now.
A new start.
A family home with space for laughter and peace.
Where Matilda can grow without shadows.
Where I can love without looking over my shoulder.
Where ghosts knock, and I don’t answer.
Let the house on Norman Terrace rest.
It was never forever.
But it was enough.