I want to walk into my new home with huge boxes of stuff from Ikea, and I’ll flounder with the furniture because I can’t read a manual to save my life, but he’ll will think its endearing and fix everything up while I sit there and playfully nag at him to go faster. We’ll choose the paintings to go on the walls, and develop our favourite photos together so we can put them up. And when I’m standing there looking at the photos in a fit of nostalgia, he’ll come and hug me from behind and we’ll laugh together at the memory conjured up. We’ll have couches and love-seats, but we’ll sit on the floor. We’ll decorate our baby’s nursery together, and pick out every toy with a smile on our faces, thinking of tiny fingers clasped around them. We’ll have an ordinary television but an extraordinary number of DVDs, so we’ll always have a collection of movies to watch whenever we’re feeling mellow. I will sit on kitchen tops, and read at dining tables, and he’ll love that about me, even if his mum doesn’t. I’ll cry at my favourite movies, and he’ll know the precise moments, so before the dam breaks, his fingers will find mine, and clutch around them, conveying all the comfort and love he can possibly muster in that one grip. He’ll lift the chairs when I’m vacuuming the house and I’ll open the door when he’s taking out the trash. And someday, when we’re old and grey, we’ll sit together and smile softly at the memories which occupy every nook and cranny of the home we built together.