I bought a little house, in a town I didn’t choose but chose me. My house is close to my parents’ house, in a small city in northern Ontario. I really want to help them age in their home. They worked hard for their house, and it’s beautiful, and they deserve to turn kids bedrooms into home gyms.

I moved in on Monday. It’s very early Sunday morning and I just finished hosting guests for the first time in my new home. It was strange and lovely to welcome people into intimate space after two years of living in my parents’ place.

When I took possession of this house, I was not excited, I was not happy. All I could see was the warts. The uneven floors. The missing faceplates on outlets. The squeaky stair treads. The cheap-outs on the renovation done two years ago. Why do the tiles end there, how come there’s moss on the shingles, why is there a higher moisture reading in the basement? Am I safe here? What will this cost me?

My warts are the house warts. The crack in the foundation, the problem with the roof. The small bit of illegal wiring. The imagined clown in the basement. The mess left over from someone else. The sharp bits that weren’t finished, the inconvenient bits. The parts that need re-doing.

And, like me, the bones of the house are solid, and it’s attractive. There’s more than enough to be good. Really good. Good life good.