All the houses in Poppy Street were happy, but the happiest of all was the house at number 22. It was not the largest house in the street, nor was it the prettiest, but is had been built by the Pearcy family who had lived in it and loved if for six years. The family belonged to the little house as much, thought the house, as it belonged to them. So when Mr Pearcy came home one night with the news that he had been offered a new job, which would mean the family would have to move two hundred kilometers away, the little house felt its heart would break.

Soon the family had packed up and a large FOR SALE sign was placed on a board outside. Real estate agents began to bring people around to see the property, but the house glared at them.

“If my family can’t sell me, then they will not be able to move,” it said to itself and when people came to look at it the doors creaked, the drawers jammed, and the house looked dull and miserable.

“This is awful,” said Mrs Pearcy. “No one seems to like the house and it suddenly seems so sad and gloomy.”

“Yes – and I shall lose my job if we don’t move soon,” sighed Mr Pearcy. “If we can’t sell the house we can’t move.” He looked unhappy but the house didn’t care.

“I shall keep them here forever,” it said gleefully, and it encouraged the weeds to grow in the front garden.

So full of its own misery was it that it did not notice when, one morning, a small, red car drew up in the driveway.

“Oh, what a lovely house,” said a warm and friendly voice, “but how sad it is. It must be lonely.”

Startled, the house looked out of its windows, prepared to look fierce and unwelcoming. What it saw make it stop and forget to look cross. A small girl, her thin hands clasped together, was gazing at it excitedly, her body wrapped in blankets in a wheelchair. Beside her stood her mother and father.

“Well, it is an urgent sale, which is why the house  is so cheap, and it really is the only one we can afford – but it looks so depressing I don’t think you could ever get well here, dear,” said the mother with a sigh.

But you’re wrong, you’re wrong,” cried the child. “The house and I would make each other happy. Look at that lovely big window. I could sit there and watch all the children passing by. When I get better I could ask them in to play with me.”

The little house began to feel warm from its very foundations. How selfish it had been, trying to make the Pearcys unhappy. How it would love to have the change to make this small girl well again. It glared at the weeds in the front garden until they shriveled under its gaze, then it stood very straight and blew the dust from its bricks.

“There you are,” cried the child, “it looks happier already,” and she laughed with pleasure.

“Funny thing, but it does look more cheerful,” said her father with a grin. “I could put up a lovely swing over on that tree and…”

“It looks as though we have found ourselves a home,” said the mother, smiling through her tears – and the house at number 22 was once again the happiest house on Poppy Street.