Pebblestone

THE PLACE I COULDN’T LEAVE

Pebblestone was not my dream house.

It was the house I would have left, if leaving had still been an option.

Old and unfinished, held together by hope, Bunnings receipts, and whatever strength I hadn't already spent keeping two small boys alive. The bathroom leaked. The kitchen looked like a tradie had gone to smoko and never come back.

Too expensive. Too broken. Too much.

And still, I stayed. Because I couldn't afford to fail. Too much else already had.

The house carried the residue of someone dangerous having been there. Broken doorframes. Cracked plaster. Dents that didn't come from furniture. The kind of damage you stop noticing until you're alone and your body remembers first.

So every day, I worked to erase him. Paint and spackle. New linens. Nag champa incense.

Mornings were loud and chaotic and somehow joyful. Nathaniel climbing into my bed before dawn. Westley charging into the kitchen like a pirate in a nappy. Me gripping a coffee like it was life support. My sketchbook always open, because drawing was the only way to bleed pressure out of my head without falling apart.

The house wasn't tidy. It was alive.

People romanticise starting from scratch. They don't tell you scratch is sharp. Scratch cuts.

Pebblestone was scratch.

But it wasn't just a house. It was a promise — whispered to two babies who didn't know how close the ground had been.

You're safe. I've got you.

Before fire. Before water. There was this house. And me. And two boys. A life held together with strength, faith, and a will that had already proven it would not break.