I'm still just floating. I really am. We walked through the house last night after everything happened, just to make sure, as Patrick said, that the seller didn't spill lamb's blood on the floor or spraypaint "Die, New Owners, Die" on the living room wall. She hadn't. And it was exactly as I remembered it, as I have walked through it in my mind for the past eight months of waiting. Great big bedrooms for the girls with lots of windows. A sunny front porch. A real fireplace. An office for Patrick.
A room of my own.
It's all coming right in the nick of time. We have to close on the last day of April to make it all work for the bank, and our rental is up at the Vacation House on May 1st. I can hear the little voice in my head, the one that never let go of wanting this house even when it was dead and we were told it was impossible, the plaintive voice that kept saying, "But...but...it was SUPPOSED to happen. It was SUPPOSED to work! I felt it! I believed!" That same voice is very smug this morning, quite smarmy, even. And she's saying, "Toldja so."
I can't even wipe the grin off my face.