There was no tree when we moved in.
Just an ugly brick wall outside our bedroom window; where the brick met the ground, there was dirt, weeds.
Our daughter was one and we planned on moving in a few years time. The house was small, we contended.
A few years passed, a son appeared; we tried to sell and move. We wanted more: bigger, nicer, better.
It might have been then that I noticed a tree was growing outside of our bedroom window, from the crack in between the wall and the dirt - a skinny tree with bright green leaves shot up, maybe four feet tall.
"That can't be a tree," my husband said. I agreed. A tree put down roots here, without our planning it, without endless trips to Home Depot? We both knew roots don't simply appear.
The house didn't sell.
In the winter, the leaves fell from whatever was growing outside our window. We added onto our house, just a few hundred square feet, but with them, it seemed our need to leave lessened. The now three-year old and six-year old danced noisily on the hardwood floors, taped artwork on every wall and embedded their memories in every square foot.
The next spring, the leaves returned. On our tree.
"I guess it's a tree," we agreed.
It's huge this year, our tree. So are our children. We are still in our house, the house whose roots wouldn't let us go, with the tree who chose us, who kept us blooming despite ourselves.