The house is quiet.
Not the peaceful sort of quiet. The sort that arrives after weeks of noise, emotions, slammed doors, tears, laughter, arguments and hugs. The sort that makes you stop in the middle of a room and realise nobody is about to shout “Mum!” from upstairs.
Tilly left this morning for two weeks with her dad.
And my heart aches already.
Which is ridiculous, really.
Because if you’d asked me a fortnight ago what I wanted most, I would have said:
A break.
A little breathing room.
A chance to focus on the move.
A chance to spend some uninterrupted time with Joel.
A chance to stop feeling like every day was spent putting out emotional fires.
The last few weeks have been hard.
Not ordinary parenting hard.
Soul-deep hard.
The kind of hard where both of you are carrying fears you don’t quite know how to put into words.
There were arguments.
There were tears.
There were moments when I genuinely wondered whether I was getting any of this right.
Moments where I felt like I was drowning beneath the weight of motherhood, house moves, work, responsibility and the endless pressure of trying to be everything to everyone.
And then underneath all the anger came the truth.
“I’m scared.”
Scared of Year 6.
Scared of moving house.
Scared of leaving the only home she’s really known.
Scared of growing up.
Scared of change.
And if I’m honest?
I realised I was scared too.
Because Everstede isn’t just a house.
It’s the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another.
It’s twenty years of memories being packed into boxes.
It’s taking a leap of faith and hoping that all the dreams you’ve spent months building in your head will become reality.
It’s exciting.
And terrifying.
Just like growing up.
Maybe we’re more alike than either of us realises.
Last night we went to China Red for a little farewell dinner before she left.
Nothing fancy.
Just duck pancakes, laughter and one of those evenings where you find yourself looking across the table thinking:
God, I love this child.
Not because she’s perfect.
Not because we’ve had an easy few weeks.
But because she’s mine.
My wild-hearted, sensitive, funny, infuriating, beautiful Goblin.
The funny thing about motherhood is that the arguments fade surprisingly quickly.
The eye rolls.
The attitude.
The endless negotiations over chargers and clothes.
Those things disappear into the background.
What remains is love.
And the ache that arrives the moment they leave.
I’ve been desperate for some child-free time.
Desperate.
Joel and I go on holiday next week. The move is looming. The attic is waiting. There are tip runs to do, boxes to pack and a whole new life to build.
And yet the second she left, all I wanted was one more hug.
One more “Love you, Mum.”
One more eye roll.
One more moment.
Because that’s motherhood too.
Spending weeks counting down to a break and then missing them before they’ve even unpacked their suitcase.
So for the next two weeks I’ll throw myself into the move.
I’ll clear the loft.
Pack the boxes.
Build the foundations of the home she’ll come back to.
Not because I don’t miss her.
Because I already do.
But because every bag donated, every cupboard cleared and every room packed is another step towards the next chapter of our story.
The chapter with the huge garden.
The chapter with late-night chats in a bigger kitchen.
The chapter with Everstede.
The chapter where we discover that home was never really the house.
It was always us.
See you soon, Goblin.
I’ll be here.
Building our next adventure.
❤️🏡✨
Stay wild, Goblin child. And always insist on your cup of stars. 🌙✨