When I fulfilled my dream and bought a house for my husband and me, he declared on the very first day: «My mom, sister, and kids will live with us…

On that day when the dream finally became reality, I couldn’t believe my luck. The cool April air burned my lungs, but I felt neither the cold nor the fatigue, only a dizzying delight. Holding a heavy bunch of keys in my hand, I stood in front of a two-story house with an attic, staring intently at its outlines, memorizing every detail, every line.

My house. Our house. The house I had dreamed of since I could remember.

The realtor had already left, leaving me alone with my acquisition. The historic mansion with thick brick walls and a roof of natural tiles was built at the beginning of the last century and preserved the atmosphere of that era—solidity, reliability, confidence in the future. With hands trembling from excitement, I inserted the key into the lock and slowly turned it.

A quiet click—and the heavy oak door gave way, inviting me to enter. Inside, it smelled of wood, dust, and, for some reason, apples—probably from the old garden that surrounded the house on all sides. I stepped into the hallway, and the floorboards creaked softly under my weight.

That sound somehow seemed welcoming to me: the house was recognizing its new owner. Slowly, as if afraid to scare away the sudden happiness, I moved from the hallway into the huge living room. High ceilings, stucco molding, antique oak parquet laid in a herringbone pattern—everything looked exactly as I had imagined the perfect house.

In the corner of the room stood a fireplace made of dark burgundy stone, which, despite its apparent power, seemed elegant. I ran my hand over the mantel, feeling the coolness of the stone and imagining how I would sit here on winter evenings, watching the dancing flames. But the main treasure awaited me by the far wall of the living room—a huge bay window with stained glass.

It was this bay window that captivated me at first sight when I first saw the house in the photos in the sale listing. The colorful pieces of glass formed a whimsical pattern of flowers and leaves. Now, as the sun’s rays penetrated through the stained glass, colored reflections played on the floor—red, blue, green, golden.

This play of light mesmerized me, creating a sense of magic. I sat down on the bay window sill, surveying the empty room. Soon, there would be a soft sofa and armchair, a coffee table, bookshelves.

My husband Ethan and I both loved books and could finally display our entire library, which was currently crammed into our rented apartment, taking up half the living space. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming desire to see the whole house at once, to take in all the rooms and nooks with one glance, to know every inch of my new sanctuary. I got up from the sill and almost ran, moving from room to room, opening doors, flinging windows wide, letting in the fresh spring air into spaces that seemed unventilated for years.

Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious kitchen, a storage room, an attic, a basement—the house seemed endless, with plenty of cozy corners and hiding places. On the second floor, I discovered a library—a small room with built-in bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The previous owners had left behind several antique volumes in leather bindings—encyclopedias and novels from the nineteenth century.

I carefully ran my finger over the spines of the books, imagining how I would spend evenings here with a cup of hot tea, immersed in reading. One of the bedrooms—bright, with large windows overlooking the garden—was perfect for a nursery. Ethan and I didn’t have children yet, but we both dreamed of a big family.

In this room, I could already see a crib, toys scattered on the floor, hear children’s laughter and the patter of little feet. Climbing the narrow staircase to the attic, I found a spacious area with slanted walls. Light filtered through small dormer windows, creating whimsical shadows.

Here, I could set up a workshop or office, or perhaps a playroom for future children. Descending downstairs, I went out through the back door into the garden. Old apple trees, pear trees, cherry trees stood covered in delicate white blossoms.

The air was filled with the sweet scent of the blooming garden, and underfoot, young grass sprang up through last year’s leaves. In the depths of the garden, there was a gazebo entwined with wild grapevines, and nearby—a small pond with a stone bridge. I took a deep breath, trying to realize that all this was now mine.

Ours, with Ethan. We had worked so long toward this moment, worked so hard, sacrificed so much to finally have our own home. I remembered the years of deprivation and saving.

How I denied myself new clothes, choosing items from thrift stores or altering old ones. How I took extra work in the evenings, translating technical documentation for international partners at the firm where I worked as the main accountant. How instead of a vacation at the beach, I stayed in the city, picking up temp jobs during vacation season.

How I counted every penny, setting aside money in a bank account I opened specifically for this purpose. Ethan also tried to contribute to the family budget, but his earnings were irregular. As a freelance designer, he constantly bounced between projects, often working nights to meet deadlines, but his efforts weren’t always rewarded with decent pay…