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When Colin and I got serious and started talking about marriage, he moved in with me. I didn’t mind sharing the space at all. Truth be told, I never wanted to leave this place, anyway. It had become more than just a house to me.
My favorite place in my house was my backyard. It was more than just grass, flowers, and garden beds.
Every single thing in that yard, I had built with my own hands.
I spent an entire hot July weekend repainting the little white picket fence that ran along the edges, brushing each board carefully until it gleamed like something from a fairy tale.
The roses were my pride and joy. I had planted them along the fence line because they reminded me so much of my late mother. She had grown the exact same variety in her garden when I was little, and every time they bloomed in brilliant red and pink, I felt like a piece of her was still with me, watching over everything I was building.
Those weekends I spent on my knees in the dirt, laying each stone in the winding path, rock by rock, pulling weeds by hand, trimming the grass until it looked like velvet carpet… those were some of the happiest hours of my life.
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