On a cobblestone road in the heart of the city, a street surreptitiously overlooks a palace and an extinct volcano that we call Arthur’s Seat. It’s the kind of sight that makes your heart skip a beat, regardless of how frequently you’ve basked in its beauty.


When I first found myself surrounded by the triple bay windows of this gorgeous Georgian townhouse, my heart was aflutter for two conflating reasons.


Firstly, I was falling head-over-heels for the man who would become my husband. As he stood behind me, sweeping the hair off my neck to plant those early-days kisses, my future flashed before me, envisioning the children we’d fill this house with. Pretty full-on, considering it was our third date…


The second reason was a little more sinister, the flutter fuelled by nerves as I realised I’d never really been comfortable with the concept of home.


The way I grew up was unconventional – a fact I discovered to my detriment much too late, via the cataclysmic collapse of a first marriage that book-ended my twenties.


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