I left Winnipeg behind, all that noise and rush, for this little dot on the map, barely big enough for a post office and a general store. And you know what? The first few weeks have been… kind of magical. I’ve been so busy settling in, it’s like I’ve barely had time to think about what I left behind.
This house—oh, it’s small, but it’s mine. Well, ours, I suppose. I’ve been pouring my heart into it, picking out paint colors, sanding down this old table until it gleamed, hanging curtains I found at a market in the next town over. I bought a set of mismatched teacups that I absolutely didn’t need, but they look so charming on the shelf, don’t they? Every corner of this place feels like a project, like I’m stitching together a new version of myself. I’ve got a little woodstove now, and let me tell you, learning to keep that thing going is a victory I didn’t know I needed. The crackle of it, the warmth—it’s like the house is alive.
And then there’s Julien. My God, Julien. I met him just a few months ago, back when I was still in the city, still wondering if I’d ever find someone who made my heart do that little flip. He’s French, all charm and that accent that makes even “pass the salt” sound like poetry. Moving here with him, to this village where he grew up, was a leap—like, a bungee-jump-without-checking-the-rope kind of leap. But he’s been my guide, you know? Showing me how to chop wood without losing a finger, laughing when I mispronounce “poutine” at the diner, holding my hand when we walk through the snow to the little Christmas market in the square. He’s patient, even when I’m fumbling through this new life.
It’s strange, though, learning to live with someone. I’ve been on my own for so long, and now there’s his coffee mug next to mine, his boots by the door, his quiet humming while he cooks. It’s nice, but it’s… new. Like learning a dance you’ve never done before. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I’m doing it right—if I’m enough for this, for him, for this tiny village where everyone knows your name by the second day. I mean, I’m 45, and here I am, starting over in a place where the biggest event is the winter potluck. It’s thrilling, but it’s scary, too.
The village is quiet, so quiet I can hear my own thoughts for the first time in years. No sirens, no subway rumble—just the wind and the occasional crunch of someone’s tires on the snow. I’m still figuring out how to be here, how to be the woman who lives in a small house with a French man, who buys local honey and waves at neighbors she’s only just met. It’s good, though. It’s like the start of a story I didn’t know I was ready to write. I keep thinking, maybe this is where I’m meant to be—here, with the snow and the teacups and Julien’s laugh. Maybe this is home.