There’s a single exposed lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in the hallway.
It’s been there since we bought the house. Bryan said he’d fix it “after the first trip” — when we’d got our bearings, settled in, made some lists. That was six months ago. The lightbulb is still there, swinging slightly when the door slams, judging us.
We now call it The Bulb. It has become a fixture, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes I wonder what the house would look like if we’d actually done any of the things we said we’d do.
There’s a hole in the wall where we meant to put the shelves.
There’s a towel covering the fuse box.
The Wi-Fi router lives on top of a shoebox because the cable doesn’t reach the proper shelf — the shelf that doesn’t exist yet, because Bryan can’t decide between “driftwood modern” and “rustic minimalist” which, as far as I can tell, are just ways of saying “still thinking.”
I have three Pinterest boards full of inspiration and zero things purchased. We agreed we wouldn’t rush. That we’d decorate it properly, bit by bit, over time. You know — slowly. Like those tasteful people who collect unique pieces and never have anything from IKEA except the oddly shaped vases.
What we’ve actually done is survive three visits with camping chairs, one rug, and a vague plan to get curtains “before summer.”
The kids don’t mind. The twins turned the spare mattress into a fort. Leo painted a rock and calls it decor.
There’s something weirdly peaceful about not decorating. At first, it stressed me out. All that blank wall. The ugly temporary lamp. The stack of half-folded throws that I keep saying I’ll sort.
But over time, it’s stopped bothering me. There’s a quiet honesty to a house in progress. It’s not pretending. It just is — half-finished, useful, sun-bleached and good enough. When I’m in Dénia, I no longer need perfection. I need shade, iced coffee, and somewhere to dry the towels.
We had dinner at that little place behind the Mercadona last night — Bodega Xaló, I think it was called. Simple food. House wine in tumblers. The man at the next table gave us a slice of his sobrassada toast “to try” and we ended up sharing olives. I had dirt under my fingernails and not a scrap of makeup on, and no one cared. We were all just… living.
I still want the proper lampshade. I still want a kitchen shelf that doesn’t fall off when someone sneezes. I want the things that make a house feel finished — pictures, cushions, a hook that isn’t a nail.
But I’m no longer waiting for the house to be perfect before I enjoy it.
We sit on fold-out chairs under a half-installed ceiling fan and eat grilled peppers off plates we bought in a petrol station. The walls are bare, but the fridge is full. There’s fresh bread, and lemons from someone’s tree, and beer so cold it hurts your teeth.
So yes, technically, we’re still not “done.”
But maybe that’s the whole point.