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Open My Hands

I sit in an empty house, an outdoor teak table pulled inside, a temporary place to sit and prop up my computer, a place that is in a state of becoming, a place of dreaming, a place undeserved but accepted with shaking hands. We were given this new home in mid-October, a home less than a mile from the little 100 year-old bungalow where we’ve lived for the past 15 years.

It is house I’d noticed for more than a decade on my early morning runs, when the sky was still pink—and on walks with our dog or when running errands downtown. It is a block away from our old condo, the first home we owned and lived in with our three then tiny kids. A house inspired by its original English-style cottage built in 1934, with a garden out front that looked like magic and with leaded front windows that shone when light hit the diamond-shaped glass.

My father-in-law, for crazy and beautiful reasons, had been wanting to give us a gift—and, on a Thursday afternoon, when we saw that this house was offered for sale, he went with us to see it. Suddenly, a few days later, on a Sunday, the offer was accepted, and on the 18th, we got the keys.

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