I am so happy.
For months I wondered what this would feel like. My stuff is in a new place. My kids are still trying to figure out where everything is. My cat looks at me, completely bewildered, wondering where in the hell she is.
Until I did. And I was right then, too.
This is just like everything else we've been through on this road; what's hard for you is a speed bump to someone else and a small twist in the road to someone else might derail you.
In this new house, I don't see the spot where my husband said goodbye for the last time. I don't see where the Christmas tree has been for the last twelve years, eight of them without him. I don't see the work bench he built. I don't walk the lawn wondering if he likes the way I'm mowing it.
It wasn't easy. These last few weeks have been like, yet again, ripping off a band-aid. As I cleaned the kids' rooms, I shared a silent memory in each one and shut the door quietly as if kissing each one goodbye: the border Brad pasted to Haley's room when she was five; the border I painted in Michael's when he was a baby; Sarah...she came home from the hospital to that house.
I looked around my room and remembered for the last time that morning my husband said goodbye.
I loved that house for being a home...and I hated it for trapping me.
It was simultaneously a source of comfort and pain.
Here I am. I'm typing this in a new room. Kids are laughing outside. I'm surrounded by boxes. I have a glass of red wine next to me. I don't like the color of this room, but I can change it because it's mine.