The House with the Bright Red Door

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to play mummies and daddies. I obviously always wanted to be said mummy. I remember walking around with a doll up my top pretending to be pregnant.

I remember going to garden centres that sold these beautiful play houses that I would always run to and beg my mum and dad for.

I never got one of the play houses from a garden centre, though. Instead I got the most beautiful little play house that my dad built for me. He built in two little windows with window boxes that we planted up with pretty flowers. I had a bright red front door with a brass door knocker. I chose the number 5 for the front (I think (?) because I was 5 at the time), I even had a little wind charm hanging up as my doorbell.

I dragged everyone into that house, adult or no. It was so exciting to play house in my very own house. I loved that house with every fibre of my being.

It’s not there anymore (sadly), and I shed a tear the day it came down. I’d secretly hoped my own girls would be able to play in it one day.

I knew even then what was most important to me was family. That little house, that my wonderful dad built me was everything.

I will always remember that little house with the red door and the labour of love it was from my dad to me.