A Worcester Woman

I grew up in Birmingham, but here I am in Worcester still living in the same house we bought 28 years ago. At this point, the house and I are basically the same age emotionally.

These walls know all our secrets. Within them we’ve lived out all our little (and not-so-little) life dramas: becoming parents, losing parents, losing jobs, starting new ones, and generally muddling our way through adulthood. Two adults somehow became three adults and a steady stream of furry companions. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the longest-standing occupants this old house has ever seen. These walls must be absolutely marinated in our DNA.

So it feels very strange to be thinking about leaving, and maybe even leaving Worcester altogether. I still half-expect the house to clear its throat and say, “Excuse me??”

Alas, my husband and I have started evaluating our requirements and imagining what retirement might look like: Somewhere quiet. Somewhere green. Somewhere with a proper studio, because I fully intend to paint until my hands refuse to cooperate. Ideally there’d be a lush garden too, perfect for future grandchildren to tear around in (should they appear) and to inspire me to be a little less lazy about gardening. Of course, we’re picturing a big, welcoming kitchen too, the kind where food is cooked with love and eaten with enthusiasm. There’d be quiet, tree-lined lanes for cycling along (I don’t cycle, but I like the idea of cycling), and wide open spaces for long dog walks, fresh air, and the occasional moment of feeling very smug and virtuous about being outdoors.

Home is about love, laughter, family, and a house that knows all your stories, so it’s a bit of a wrench to think about moving on. The next home will have a lot to live up to since this one has set the bar inconveniently high. It’ll need to feel just as warm and welcoming, and not too far from my daughter… wherever on earth she decides to end up. We may need to wait patiently and then follow at a respectable distance. Subtle.