We were walking up to the house after school today and the boy stopped part way up the yard, looked up at our house, and said 

There’s something about this house. I don’t know, it’s the leaves and the snow, it’s just….

And the girl said 

It’s just home. This is the first house I’ve ever lived in that feels like home. It is filled with love and I love being home. 

I sometimes wonder if they miss their lives of privilege. They may have had a lot and lived in nice places, but they didn’t feel safe and secure and happy in any of those houses. 

The fact that this home is here for us and is holding us in love is a kind of happiness I have a hard time describing. This is my kids’ childhood- this is where their foundations begin for the adults they will become. 

Thanksgiving is a hard time for the three of us. It is a reminder of a very ugly incident in our family. And we have worked hard ever since to make happier memories to lay over that painful one. 

And moments like this I know we are on the right path, we will be ok, we are healing, we are finding happiness.