I feel like the older you get, the less likely the happy surprises happen.
I am an endlessly naive optimist. I mean I have a right to be. I fell head over heels in love with my college crush and twenty five years later we got married and have two beautiful babies.
But I also am a writer. Pain. Rejection. More pain.
And I am always on the hunt for our dream home. Our forever home. Stately but quirky. In a small town with a colorful cast of locals. The place where Rob and I can raise the kids, and I can toss all those rejection letters into the Victorian fireplace and laugh.
It shouldn’t be that hard. But it is. And we are older so those moments of joy are sandwiched between harsh realities and down right tragedy.
Now that three doors have closed, shouldn’t there be a window somewhere? Some way for a breeze to come sweeping through?
So here I am. Just a mom. Home with two sick kids, asking whoever is listening for a bit of happy surprise magic. One moment of “Yes” in a storm of lifelong “No.”
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