Home person

I have known and felt my whole life that I am a home person. Perhaps sometimes a perfectionist, sometimes a bit workaholic, but always after work most eager to go home. And when the weekend is approaching, and everyone is bumping their heads at what to do at weekend, I feel calm because I know that being home is usually no less enjoyable for me than somewhere else. Good movies, engaging books, cozy rugs, cups of warm tea and coffee, home smelling biscuits, and the most important, time with my already adult kids.

For a very long time, longer than I remember, I had dreamed of my own home. Dreamed about this while living in the city’s apartment. About our home. Cozy and sophisticated when every corner of the home is cute and cozy, every glass in the kitchen is familiar, every cushion on the sofa is adapted to our back.

I dreamed about our home, where our traditions are born, our rules are made, our dreams are expressed, our plans are laid out. About our home where all time and space is ours only. About a home full of love, warmth, and kindness – one we would always like to return to; and one where we could recover even after the craziest day. A home where we would always find each other and hide from the rest of the world if we wanted.

I realize that I am now experiencing one of the happiest periods of my life. And it is no secret that the reason for this is our dream home, where life takes place like in another dimension. 

While we were building our home, there were outbreaks of hysterical laughter, raised voices and searches for justice. Lots of calculations, lots of sketching, even more compromises. And besides all this, there was a fantastic amount of immeasurable, unbridled joy flowing over the edges.

© Fortune, 2019