You and I became acquainted nearly thirteen years ago. It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, I was initially after another one just down the street. But that one had too many problems and I didn’t want such a big project. I noticed you on the same day that I said no to the other one, and so I came to see you. You were cute, in solid condition. Very old-school but nothing that a little modern touch couldn’t fix. I had been casually looking for a home for several months. I and my now ex-husband, that is. This felt a little different and we really needed something positive to look forward to. Something of a distraction, maybe.

We had just lost our first child three weeks prior. Middle of summer. Hot. My breasts were swollen. Size A to D with milk that would never be drunk. I was full of pain. Pain everywhere. In my heart, my head, my body, my everything. Maybe you would give us some hope. So we did it. We put in our offer and that same day, you became ours. Our home.

You had green carpet, a pink tiled bathroom, cream-coloured kitchen cabinets, old creaky wooden floors, wallpaper everywhere—and I mean everywhere—even the light switch plates were covered in wallpaper. We left you alone for a year. We rented you out to a young couple who had too many cats so that we could save up just a bit more. Just a bit more so that we could turn you into exactly what we wanted.

During that year, about nine months later to be exact, I became pregnant again. High risk. Full of anxiety. Waiting for something to go wrong. Designing you in my head while I was pregnant was a good distraction. We started renovating you on the first of December—the day after our tenants with too many cats moved out. No more wallpaper, no more pink tiled bathrooms, no more cream-coloured kitchen cabinets, and no more green carpet. The only thing that would remain was your unfinished basement and the old creaky wooden floors. Four days later, and several weeks early, I gave birth via c-section. We made it. Premature, but we made it. I missed most of your transformation while living in the NICU but I knew that you would be ready and waiting for me, and my new bundle, when we came home.

Beginning of winter. Snow falling. Cold. I was a new mom in this new home. Me and my bundle were home, and we were alone. My now ex-husband left every Sunday night for work a few hours away and returned each Friday evening. You were warm and cozy. You held me as I held my new baby. You heard me cry as I heard him cry. You welcomed me into your walls and corners, as I welcomed him into my arms. You were steady and unwavering, completely unlike this new mom in her new role. The rooms that lived here before I moved in were not the rooms that became what I made of them, after I moved in.

The first two years of living with you were messy. Toys, dirty laundry, unwashed dishes, sleepless nights, spilt milk, tears—a lot of tears—and the unfolding of an unhappy marriage. You stood still when I became pregnant again and you still loved me when I brought her home. I was a new mom again but this time with a bit more experience and a bit of luck—this girl was different. She let us sleep at night, she didn’t cry and we weren’t stuck inside because she came home in summer, not in winter.

It got a bit easier being a mom, but not easier being a wife. Not long after this easy baby girl arrived, did my now ex-husband leave for good. And then we were three. Me, my boy, and my girl—and of course, you. Our home.

You held me in the night when I cried on the cold bathroom floor wondering how the hell I was going to get past this. You listened to my incessant months-long coughing that I now know was from severe anxiety. You opened your front door to my mom in the middle of the night when I just needed a hug. You also opened your front door to let me out when I became a bit stronger, a bit more brave.

I almost lost you. My home. I don’t know where I would have gone if it wasn’t for my parents. They didn’t buy that cottage. Instead, they paid my now ex-husband his portion of you so that you could fully be mine. You let me re-paint all your walls, refurnish you and repurpose almost all of the rooms. My bedroom, because it was the biggest bedroom, became a shared room for the kids. Two double beds and a small play area. Perfect. It was time I stopped co-sleeping with them anyways. I took the smaller bedroom. Painted it a soft blue grey. Hung a new moon-shaped sun-catcher by my window to catch the morning sun. New bed. New everything. The den on the main floor became a TV/toy room. The dining room became a real dining room, with a proper dining table and some custom made ceramics and paintings from Italy. I was letting all the love come in. The kitchen stayed the same but its dishes and daily ware didn’t.

You were now becoming a reflection of me and of the me that I wanted to be. Inviting, bright, loving and optimistic. It was a long road, but a girl could dream. You stayed on course with me. You watched me grow from the broken woman that I had become to the thriving, independent woman that I am. You let the kids write on your walls, bang on the floor, run around with their friends and be nurtured in your comfort when they were sick.

It took a long while but you were cool when I finally started dating again to find love. To start all over again. To take that leap. You grow and change, as I grow and change. Always meeting my needs. Ready for what’s next. Two summers ago, you were game when I transformed the basement. Cement and cinder block to a warm and inviting area. New electrical, drywall, paint, laminate flooring, a guest bedroom—perfect for giving us some more livable space. Last summer, the kids got their own bedrooms. My girl stayed in the big room, my boy took my room and now I have the smallest room, the den. On the main floor. It’s meant to be a bedroom because it has a nice sized closet, but this room has seen the most change over the years. Office, TV room, guest bedroom, toy room, exercise room, back to office, and now my bedroom. Not only am I no longer co-sleeping, I’m not even sleeping on the same floor. This was a big move.

You’ve been there since the early days of sleepless nights, piles of never-ending laundry, vomit, fevers and tears. You’ve also held many birthday parties, friends, laughter and dance parties. You went from watching my kids take their first steps to hearing them bang out rock-and-roll tunes on the drums and serenading us with the piano. From teaching them how to walk and talk, to watching them become strong little people with big opinions and attitudes. We’re all changing, and you’re meeting our needs just fine—still holding us, still comforting us, still watching us.

You are the house that became my home, and you’ve been a good home. I don’t notice your old creaky wooden floors, but they’re still there. I look around and see a lot of memories in these walls. Each room holding a different story, a different time, a different space. A different me. 

-Suzanne Pede

Suzanne Pede is deeply moved by life stories and human connection. Toronto-based and with over fifteen years of experience working in healthcare, Suzanne has witnessed the breadth of human experiences, from the highs of childbirth to the lows of terminal illness. She is a mom of two, an advocate for maternal and mental health, and the owner of Cuddle for Keeps—a small business whereby she hand-makes weighted and personalized keepsake bears—inspired by her career in healthcare and the loss of her first child to stillbirth. As an aspiring writer, Suzanne shares stories of motherhood, loss and resilience. She seeks to inspire and uplift women facing life’s challenges, offering empathy and understanding to those navigating similar journeys. Suzanne aims to spark conversations, foster connections, and empower women to embrace their own paths with courage and grace.