In early September, my husband and I traveled to Cape Cod. We fell in love. The brisk late summer breeze, salty sea air and pine, weathered wood shingles. It was idyllic New England—lighthouses and sandy beaches and fresh oysters.
Weeks later (was it divine intervention?), my husband received a call from a Boston-based law firm, and in dizzying succession, after interviews and offers and late-night conversations and what-ifs, we sold our house and our car, packed our things, and moved to Massachusetts. It felt impulsive and hopeful and scary. But more than anything, it felt right.
Our new home is a charming little brownstone straddling the South End and Back Bay neighborhoods. We’re a hundred yards from a park and public garden, and after work, we amble along the uneven brick sidewalks with the pup to explore.
I love our street. I love walking to the grocery store and restaurants and bars. I love that I can see the ocean from my office and watch sailboats and rowers glide through the Charles on my morning runs. Arm in arm with Chris, (already) in heavy coats and boots, our breath visible in the cool fall air, Boston feels like home.