The silence is weird.
Like, really weird.
I close the front door behind me and just stand there for a second, ears straining. No shouting. No fighting. No one demanding toast after we’ve already left the house. Just… silence. I think I can actually hear my own pulse.
For a brief moment, it’s almost peaceful. But then I turn my head and remember that peace does not exist here. Not in this house. Because the place is still an absolute disaster zone from the morning chaos.
The shoe box by the front door is doing a laughable job at containing shoes. It’s meant to store them neatly, but instead, they spill out like a crime scene. There’s at least one wellington boot, several odd trainers, and, confusingly, a doll’s head. I don’t even want to know.
The pile of unopened letters on the counter has reached a height that could structurally support a small child. Some are bills, some are probably important, and at least a third of them are junk mail trying to convince us to switch broadband. I should go through them. Instead, I walk past them, like I do every day.
The house itself is fine, more than fine, really. It’s a cute terraced cottage, the kind that looks unassuming from the outside but quietly inviting once you step through the door. It sits on a neat row of six cottages just outside the centre of Oakwood, close enough to feel connected but far enough to escape the constant hum of the town. Each cottage has a small front garden, and most of them are lovingly tended, overflowing with flowers, ornaments, and the occasional gnome; unsurprising, given that we’re surrounded by mostly elderly neighbours who treat gardening like both a hobby and a competitive sport.
The previous owners modernised our cottage slightly, just enough to make it comfortable without erasing its history. Clean lines and practical updates sit alongside older features, creating a balance between old and new. It may not ooze charm in every corner, but it feels solid and lived-in, like a place that understands family life and can weather a bit of noise, mess, and chaos.
Oakwood itself is a wonderful place to live. It has great schools, a charming old-town feel, and crime rates so low they’re barely worth mentioning. It’s quaint without being sleepy, familiar without feeling trapped, and best of all, it’s close enough to the city to make life convenient while still feeling like a world of its own.
Despite being happy with where we live and mostly happy with our house, it does feel like it isn’t big enough to house the huge amount of stuff that inevitably comes with having kids.
Cupboards? Bursting at the seams.
Drawers? Stuffed full of things we don’t even remember owning.
Every possible “hidey hole”? Jam-packed with more things we don’t remember owning.
I swear, I opened the airing cupboard last week, and an avalanche of towels and rogue water pistols nearly took me out.
The girls share a room, and I don’t know what it is about girls, but why are they so messy? It’s like they wake up, take one look at their bedroom, and think, Hmm, this is too tidy, before proceeding to scatter every item of clothing and every single small plastic toy across the floor like some kind of deranged artist. I have nearly broken an ankle on a Barbie shoe more times than I care to admit.
Oscar is slightly more tidy, but even his room is bursting at the seams. The child has enough Lego to build a small functioning city, and every shelf, drawer, and under-bed space is full. Honestly, at this point, we need ceiling storage. Just some nice little baskets hanging from above, like a bizarre but functional chandelier of stuff.
I glance at the half-finished DIY projects Dan started “ages ago” (his words) and sigh.
How do other people make their houses look effortlessly tidy? You know the ones; the Pinterest people. The ones with minimalist, beige-toned homes where a single decorative vase sits on a shelf, and there’s no clutter in sight. Do their children just… not own things? Do they have some kind of magical storage dimension? Or are they just better at pretending they have their lives together?
I bet Eleanor’s house is Pinterest worthy.
I pick up a half-eaten biscuit from the arm of the sofa, sigh again, and do what any reasonable adult would do in this situation.
I make a cup of tea, sit down, and ignore the mess for just a little longer. And yes, I eat the biscuit.
Dan’s laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, an unfinished email frozen mid-sentence. It looks like something straight out of a thriller movie; the kind where someone gets mysteriouslykidnapped while typing. A half-drunk coffee sits beside it, still warm. A chair slightly pushed back, like he got up in a rush. The eerie silence of a man who has simply… vanished.
Except I know exactly where he is.
And where he will be for the next 45 minutes.
He’s on the loo.
It is one of life’s greatest mysteries, one that has baffled women for centuries: Why does it take men so long to poo? Like, is it a medical condition? A full-body experience? A spiritual awakening? Does he lose track of time? Is he writing a novel in there?
Meanwhile, in the time it takes Dan to “do his business,” I:
Pick up all the toys off the living room floor (including several small, spiky objects designed solely to injure parents).
Wipe up the toast crumbs off the counter, because apparently, the ability to use a plate is a rare and precious gift in this household.
Gather up the kids’ abandoned socks, because for some reason, they remove them in random locations like they’re marking territory.
