Up until I was eight we lived in the house with the traditional shutters and the two big lavender plants in the garden that always attracted bees. After that we lived in the taller, bigger house next door to the boat, with my bright pink bedroom.

My memories of my Dad are clearer and more specific in our first house. I can recall being in the kitchen and explaining to him that I now preferred my toast cut into triangles and not rectangles, please. That exciting moment I was allowed to walk to the corner shop all by myself to buy some milk, gripping a coin in my hand as he watched closely from the gates of our house. The time I had an ear infection and he stayed at home with me and we watched films all day. Sitting in his wardrobe, after I’d been put to bed, to practise tying shoelaces on his brown brogues. I remember how he’d allow me to sneak downstairs on a Wednesday evening after my mum left to teach her evening class so we could watch Quantum Leap together. Playing on the bathroom floor with my sister while he soaked in the tub. 

Then we moved to the other house which hadn't been updated in decades. Perhaps because my parents then spent what felt like forever renovating and refurbishing our new home – bedrooms were switched, walls changed colour and new bathrooms were installed – I can’t seem to place him there, however hard I try. Except for the week he started to feel unwell. It was just after Christmas and a visit to the doctor revealed he had been having a heart attack. He was checked into hospital and my little sister and I were constantly reassured he would be coming home very soon. But then a week later, just like that, he was gone. ‘His heart was very weak’, they told us. And that’s when the other house really comes into focus. People kept arriving. People everywhere. Making tea. Preparing food. Hugging and crying. Grief and shock.

I remember I went and sat in his wardrobe again. ‘What will we do with all of his clothes?’

I was only 10, now I am in my early thirties. All of it a very long time ago. But that first house, with the traditional shutters and the lavender plants, is where all my good memories of him are. If I close my eyes, and walk back into that house, he’s there and I can remember him.

GS, London

Further information

What makes a house a home and why does it matter so much? Our new series, 'Moving Stories', inspired by Savills new advertising campaign, explores the complex relationship between home and home-owner with funny, sad and bittersweet reflections on moving out, moving in and moving on.

We invite you to submit your own Moving Stories and we will donate £50 to Dreams Come True for every one we publish on Savills UK Blog. We'll also make a donation for every story submitted for consideration.