Seven years and countless memories later, there's a for sale sign in the yard of Armstrong street.
The house may not have double ovens, a three-car garage or granite countertops, but what it does feature is 2,110 square feet of laughs, stories and priceless moments.
Opening the front door to see little Macy's face for the first time when the breeder dropped her off.
My parents' reaction as they walked into the entry way and saw the house filled with their nearest and dearest, ready to celebrate their 50th birthdays.
Trevor's quote when he stumbled into his surprise 30th birthday party. "Everyone's in jerseys!"
And all of our "firsts" as a married couple - first Christmas, first anniversary and every holiday in between.
As a person who notoriously gets weepy over the ending of a chapter, the voluntary decision to relinquish this property to a complete stranger -- albeit practical and probably necessary -- does sadden me. Seven years ago, we bought a house. Today, we're selling a home.
We'll always have a roof over our head, and for that I am grateful. I know it doesn't matter the house, it's what inside that makes it a home. Our shlocky Christmas trees. A jersey collection. Bins...lot and lots of bins. A happily married couple, a white fluffy dog and now a new addition. These things will make our future abodes feel like home. But those homes will never replace the wonderful times we celebrated here.
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