'Are you happy here?' he asks. He's not. He's feeding wood to the chiminea and I'm filling up our wines. Three yellow tailed cockatoos take their flight path over us and a harem of blue wrens skip amongst the mulch, parkouring off the chicken wire and rocks when they are alarmed, which is a lot, because little birds have a lot to be scared about.

'Yes'. I still can't understand why he isn't. It's my failing as a wife. I'm using my own ability to find happiness in the small things as a benchmark for what he should be able to do, and this awful part of me sees his unhappiness as a weakness. 'There's a lot to be grateful for. Look where we live. It's beautiful. And my coast - ' I trail off. I have the luxury of going surfing when he's at work. I work part time at best, he works full time. I know his life is harder. I'm being utterly unsympathetic, and I give myself a swift internal kick.

'I'm sorry babe' I say. 'I know you want to move to Tassie. But - ' and I hesitate, because I'm not good at being firm 'but I don't see how that's going to solve anything. Then it's me unhappy. I'll miss my parents, Ned, the surf here - '. Again, I stop. He misses his family in England too. It's what happens when you marry someone from t'other side of the world. One of you always has to live away from family. For some that's a blessing, granted.

He takes a big sip of wine and settles back in his chair. 'I can't die in this town'. I don't want him to die in any town, actually. I'm quite in love with the guy.

Being in love means sacrifices and compromises and negotiations, an eternal dance where we try to keep each other happy. We don't mind because we love each other dearly. This love is exactly why I'll agree soon enough to put the house on the market and look at properties in Tasmania. I pour another glass. 'Don't worry, you won't die here babe. I get it'. It's a conversation we've had a million times before and I'd be stupid not to understand where he's coming from, or insensitive.

I ask him to let me lean into it and get used to the idea again, and tell him he should know too I am happy here. I'll move if he can deal with the fact I'll be spending half of the year living in Victoria in my van. If you can wrap your head around that, I say, then maybe. And maybe we can give it a few years? Now's not the right time.

This love.

I go in to throw some vegetables in the oven. It's starting to spit rain. My heart aches a little at the thought of leaving and the courage that'll require of me.

But this love. He comes in and takes me in his arms. 'Babe, we won't move if you're happy.' I nuzzle in, tell him it's a decision we'll make together, and that I don't want him to be unhappy either.

The dance continues.

We are right now each other's heart homes, at least.

This is written in response to @galenkp's Weekend Engagement prompts, one of which asks us if we ever wished we lived somewhere else.

With Love,

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