The Storybook I Didn’t Know I Was Writing

when I was 6, I decided I would most definitely live in a pink house.

i would have the most beautiful peonies and fresh lemonade every day sitting on the porch. mostly to welcome the birds and squirrels and tell them about all of the things I had read in my American girl doll books or how I read about Annie Oakley and how I wouldn't let them be like the animals she needed to acquire for dinner. after all, it was a different time period.

when I was 7, it was a storybook that I had created in my mind. filled with sugary-pink walls, a far too detailed personal library, much like Bells, and a giant kitchen filled with all the herbs and saved plants that I just couldn't let have a meaningless life all hanging upside down from the ceilings.

when I was 8, I swore I would have a garden so big, I could feed the neighbors. I could grow flowers for those who needed a reminder that life was good.

when I was 12, I wanted to paint. having a strong foundational love for monet, I also wanted to grow flowers and wait for them to grow so I could paint them.

life has a way of surprising you with a sweetness that sometimes not even we can imagine them.

my home may not be pink or even Victorian.

but it's built on a foundation far more enduring – the unwavering love of my family.

the air hums with a magic no amount of glistening shingles or stained-glass windows could ever replicate.

its a warmth that seeps into your bones.

a comfort that whispers promises of forever, and a joy that makes every day feel like an adventure in itself.

this, my friends, is the true happily ever after.

this is my storybook, just rewritten.

rewritten with the people that I didn't know I needed.

pink peonies & lemonade are still welcomed.

and not just for the birds and squirrels this time.

....