The Little House

I had been looking for a place to live, to start my life over (once again) and as soon as I walked into the little house I started to cry. I hoped the people showing it to me wouldn’t notice. I did my best to hide my tears, I bent my head, and went out into the small garden. It was beautiful and lush, there were tomato plants laden with fruit, and flowers.

The kitchen was spacious and I’d be able to cook there and have friends over. Did I still have any friends? I was leaving my life, I was doing a terrible thing, I was breaking a commitment, leaving my daughter, and my home. Didn’t I deserve to be punished? I was trying hard to find a place that wouldn’t make me feel like that. That’s why I started to cry when I walked into this house. It wasn’t my home yet, but it could be.

I was profoundly lost and ashamed. I had ruined another relationship, I wasn’t going to be able to see my daughter every day, and it was my own fault. I couldn’t make the relationship work, I didn’t try hard enough, I had given up. I cried with relief and gratitude. I had been delivered. I was getting another chance. I had escaped from the misery I was living in. I needed to show my daughter what it looked like to stand up for yourself, to take action, I was proud and optimistic. In that little house, I was at once both lost and found.

I moved in August first. I had been packing for weeks, though I didn’t take much. I took my books, my clothes, the pots and pans, and some framed pictures. There were a few pieces of furniture too, but not much. At the age of fifty, I found myself at Target buying things like scissors and a can opener. I needed silverware, sheets, and towels, beds, a couch, it was like when I got my first apartment, only this time my mom wasn’t paying for everything, this time I was the mom.

We settled into the house, and it was small, but perfect for us. It turned out I did have a few remaining friends, and that was enough. I knew I had done the right thing for myself and my daughter. Though I wouldn’t be there for her every day, I knew that for half the time her life would be peaceful and there would be no yelling. She would no longer have to witness my fear and weakness. There were times she cried and said she wished we could all be together again, and each time I’d say as gently as I could, that would never happen.

We lived there for three years. In that time I taught my daughter to bake a pie, to make fresh fettuccine, and to make herself an egg for breakfast. I taught myself to breathe again, to sing, to dance and I found my way back to myself. Just the other day she reminded me of that time, saying “Remember when you first left and you told me when I got older I’d understand why you had to leave? Now I do.” I was struck by her understanding. Though it seems like so long ago, it all came flooding back.  Suddenly I was back in that little house, awash in feeling both relief and terrific sadness.