When Elias and I first bought the little cottage on the edge of the woods, nobody else wanted it. The roof sagged like a tired shoulder, the garden was a jungle of thorns, and the windows were so grimed with dirt you couldn’t see the sunset. Our friends called it a “money pit.” We just called it “ours.”
We didn’t have much money, so we paid for everything with time and sweat. I remember the summer we painted the porch yellow. We ended up with more paint on our clothes than on the wood, laughing until our sides ached, drinking cheap iced tea out of jars. That was the day Elias looked at me, wiped a smudge of yellow off my nose, and said, “This is it, Martha. This is the life.”
Over the next forty years, that cottage became more than just wood and stone. It absorbed our laughter during Christmas dinners and held our silence during the hard winters when the heating broke. It watched us raise two children who grew up and moved to the city. It saw us grow gray, saw Elias’s walk turn into a shuffle, and saw my hands grow stiff with age.
We didn’t travel the world. We didn’t see Paris or Rome. But sitting on that porch swing, holding hands as the fireflies came out, we felt like we had everything. We had created a world where we were safe, loved, and understood.
Then came the winter Elias didn’t wake up.
After the funeral, the cottage felt different. The silence wasn’t peaceful anymore; it was heavy. The yellow porch looked faded. The garden seemed to droop. Everyone told me to sell. “It’s too much work for you alone, Martha,” they said. “Move to a condo. Move closer to the kids.”
I almost did. I packed a few boxes. I took the pictures off the walls. But one evening, I sat on the swing, closing my eyes, and I felt a warm breeze, even though it was October. I remembered Elias’s voice: “This is it, Martha.”
I realized then that we hadn’t just built a house. We had built a feeling. We had constructed a sanctuary out of forgiveness, patience, and a million small cups of coffee shared at the kitchen table.
I unpacked the boxes. I stayed.
Now, I am in my eighties. My steps are slow, and my memory isn’t what it used to be. But every night, when I drift off to sleep, I am not afraid. I know that this life, this beautiful, messy struggle we shared, was just the beginning.
I know that paradise isn’t a tropical island or a city of gold. Paradise is the place we made with our hearts, right here in this little cottage. And I know, with absolute certainty, that it is the place I will return to someday. Elias is there, sitting on the porch, waiting for me to come home so the paradise can be complete again.
