I’ve never wanted to live in a huge house.
Tried that, once. My parents moved up from a tiny suburban ranch, their first home, to a massive 1920s three-story in-town stone house.
Even with five kids, it was a huge house. It had a music room, inexplicable wall-to-wall carpet in the kitchen, and two maids’ rooms on the third floor that became Janeray’s and my bedrooms. (We didn’t become the maids though.)
And when my mom realized that huge stone house had 40-plus windows, all of which she washed twice a year, I think the glamour must’ve worn off pretty fast.
I do, however, want a house that’s livable. For me that means rooms that are inviting, even if they’re small. Details like light fixtures and hardware that are high-quality. Utility spaces that are actually useful and don’t make me swear with frustration.