Moving day finally came. We bought some furniture a few days earlier, played Tetris with our secondhand seven-seater, cramming boxes into every crevice.
Before moving in, we handled the unglamorous stuff: inspection, carpet steam cleaning, bug bombs. The fridge, washer, and dryer arrived. My husband, our two school-aged kids, and I spent the first night assembling the kids' new bunk beds. No table yet, so we ate supper on cardboard boxes, then huddled under borrowed blankets like pioneers.
Day two brought upgrades: two sofas and a real table. My husband became our family's Uber driver—school runs, Airbnb hauls, picking up my parents and our youngest. I stayed behind wrestling with bunk bed instructions. The kids' bedroom had an ocean view. Despite summer heat, open windows brought fierce, cooling breezes.
My parents explored bird-filled Muriwai beach and took a romantic Rotorua trip. Our youngest started at a cozy nearby kindy. Seven of us made it work in a mostly-empty house.
Home isn't about furniture. It's about the shared time.
