Yesterday, I closed the door on 12 Norman for the last time as home.
And today, I hand over the keys.
I thought I would have some grand, poetic feeling ready for the moment. Something neat and meaningful. Something that would sum up nearly twenty years of my life within those walls.
Instead, I mostly felt hot.
Ridiculously, aggressively hot.
There were tip runs, bin bags, furniture disappearing, last-minute purges, cleaning supplies everywhere, a small stool following me from room to room so I could periodically collapse on it, and my mother arriving armed for a level of deep cleaning I had neither requested nor emotionally prepared for.
It was not elegant.
It was not cinematic.
It was very, very real.
By the afternoon, the house had changed completely. The furniture was gone. The rooms echoed. My wardrobe, which had somehow survived multiple purges, finally gave up its last few remnants. Tilly’s room was emptied. My room was emptied. The bathroom was scrubbed. The kitchen cupboards were cleaned. The lounge disappeared back into bare floorboards and alcoves.
One by one, the rooms stopped being ours.
There is something incredibly strange about seeing a home without the things that made it yours. The bed is gone, but you still know exactly where it stood. The sofa is gone, but you can still picture every evening spent there. The shelves are empty, but your brain continues to fill them.
The physical evidence disappears long before the memories do.
And perhaps that is why I did not feel sad when I thought I should.
I was too busy.
Too tired.
Too sweaty.
Too focused on getting the next bag into the car and the next floor hoovered and the next cupboard emptied.
At one point, while taking yet another load to the tip, I somehow managed to meet the woman whose house I am buying there.
Because apparently this entire move needed one final plot twist.
She mentioned an ancient bond on the house, and for approximately thirty seconds my nervous system left my body entirely.
After months of mortgages, advocates, paperwork, valuations, conditions, bank instructions, fees and endless waiting, the words “problem” and “bond” on the day before court were enough to send me straight into panic.
And then, later, the email arrived.
All funds received.
All redemption figures received.
Ready to complete tomorrow.
Which is now today.
There it was, finally, in black and white.
Tomorrow had become today.
The thing I have spent months worrying about is no longer some distant date on a calendar.
At 9:15 this morning, I am going to Court.
I am taking the keys to 12 Norman with me.
And I am going to walk out owning somewhere else.
That sentence still does not feel entirely real.
Last night, when everything was finally clean and empty, I stood by the front door with the keys hanging from the lock.
And that was the moment it caught me.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A little tightening in my chest. A wobble. Tears beginning before I had quite decided whether I wanted them.
Because twenty years is a long time.
12 Norman has held versions of me I barely recognise now.
It has held motherhood.
It has held grief.
It has held fear, laughter, illness, parties, ordinary evenings, terrible days, wonderful days, animals, arguments, Christmas mornings, school runs, heartbreak, ridiculous decisions and moments I thought would last forever.
It has been refuge and prison and sanctuary and frustration.
It has been too small and just right.
It has been the place I desperately wanted to leave and the place I was once terrified of losing.
And yesterday, after years of saying I would move one day, I actually did.
The rooms are empty now.
The cupboards are bare.
The rubbish is gone.
The floors have been swept and hoovered and mopped.
The doors have been closed.
And 12 Norman no longer needs anything from me.
That feels important.
I did not leave perfectly.
I did not leave gracefully.
I left tired, emotional, overheated and occasionally swearing at everybody around me.
But I left well.
And that was always the point.
Today, I will hand over the keys.
Then I will cross the threshold into whatever comes next.
The Crossing is no longer something I am preparing for.
It is happening.
Today.
🖤🗝️
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