The Hardest Goodbye Isn’t the House.

When I Built the B&B… I Found a Family. Who Knew?

There are places we live, and then there are places that quietly, steadily become part of who we are — not because of the place, but because of the people. Neighbors who you begin to know by a simple wave across the street somehow become the people you text when you need help… say, building a B&B. That’s the magic of a place like Randle Lane.

When I first arrived, everything was new. I learned the rhythms of the street — the hum of morning routines that soon became familiar, the way the light hits just right in the late afternoon when it’s time for the pool. At the start, you don’t expect it to matter quite so much. But then, something shifts.

It happens in small, almost unnoticeable ways, incrementally. A quick chat turns into a longer conversation. A borrowed item becomes a shared meal. A permanent floatie appears at the pool. A seat is unofficially reserved for the weekend supper rotation. Before you know it, these once-strangers have become part of your daily life in a way that feels both effortless and essential.

Good neighbors have a way of becoming a chosen family. I got to know all the neighbors, of course. There are the Bettingers. My new plan is to copy their social life. My pool buddy, sweet Kristi. And the Acostas, non-Randle Lane, whose longstanding friendship started in 1994, but that is another story. 

And the four individuals who just became my heart. For me, that family came from the Skinners and the Dunnings. David and Rhonda across the street, and Susan and Chuck to my left.

I know there were words uttered when I first rolled down the lane — conversations I only learned about much later. They thought I was a little nuts. “Bless her heart” was likely whispered more than once. 

And yet, they took me in anyway. Not in grand, dramatic gestures, but in the steady, reliable ways that matter most. When things weren’t going well, they listened. And as the business grew, they were right there for the wins.

They stepped in without being asked. Looking back, there was an unspoken      understanding that said, “We’ve got you.” And somehow, that was always enough.

Friendships like these are built in the in-between moments — conversations while mowing the lawn, shared laughter, the casual “come on over.” It was easy, natural, and real. And that’s what makes leaving so incredibly hard.

Because when we move, we’re not just packing boxes or forwarding mail. We’re saying goodbye to a version of our life shaped by these people. We’re stepping away from routines that included them, from moments that won’t quite repeat themselves in the same way again.

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes with leaving a place where you felt known. It’s not just about missing the physical space. It’s about missing the familiarity, the comfort, the unplanned connections that made ordinary days feel a little brighter. 

Susan’s cooking and unmatched hospitality. I call her my “sista” — we’re the same age, born just five days apart, and we’ve shared more life experiences than coincidence alone can explain.

David has been my Mr. Fix-It, walking partner, chef in crime, pool buddy, and most recently, Wordle cheater. Chuck, steady as ever, contributed expertise to everything from electricity to U.S. history, government, and Texas linguistics — and most recently served up the best bowl of gumbo I’ve ever had. For five years, I have sat at his right side in all the card games that matter, and he was my wingman.

Rhonda became my official health advisor, patiently fielding my many rants about the U.S. healthcare system. She navigated it all with wisdom, thoughtful suggestions, and a willingness to laugh at every one of my jokes — publicly, anyway. She encouraged me to see an ENT when it became clear I was beyond Texas allergies. 

David stayed with me for the first surgery, and Rhonda was the first face I saw when I woke up. Susan stayed all afternoon at the hospital for the second surgery. There was all the love a girl could ever ask for. This is family.

It’s knowing that the ease of proximity — the very thing that made it all feel so effortless — will now require intention. And yet, there’s something deeply meaningful in that sadness. It means it mattered.

Leaving The Virginia May for a new chapter in Virginia carries all of that with me             — gratitude for what was, excitement for what’s ahead, and a quiet recognition that something truly special is being left behind. Not lost, just… carried forward. In friendships that distance doesn’t diminish.

Because the truth is, the best people don’t stop being part of your life just because you no longer share a street. They become the ones you call. The ones you visit. The group chat will still buzz. I’ll still be in the loop. And they’ll hear all about the next round of adventures waiting in Virginia.

Goodbyes are never easy, especially when they involve people who made a place feel like home. But they are also a reflection of something beautiful — proof that, for a time, everything aligned just right. And maybe that’s the real gift. Not just the place itself, but the people who turned it into something worth missing.

And so, as The Virginia May closes its cottage doors, and the oven has baked its last sourdough, I think I will just be simply Colleen for a while.

As I write my final musings as a local for 287 North (Cindy might entertain the odd travel piece here and there), the end is here. I thank you for the cards, emails and letters over the years letting me know that whatever was published that month resonated with you.

Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me. (Shakespeare’s Hamlet)

Colleen McCullough is the owner of The Virginia May Bed and Breakfast @ Eagle Mountain Lake. You can follow the BnB on Instagram and Facebook @thevirginiamay.