I cannot say I felt sad that I permanently left the house that I had lived in for over twenty years. I find it almost impossible to explain the way I felt, but I guess it was a mixture of relief and emptiness in simpler terms.
The months before the move was loud, agitated, busy, and very emotional. I systematically organized every room, sorting what to keep and what to give away.
I confess that I tried to be efficient, but I wasn’t able to follow through.
I cried—a lot.
Pictures, letters, school projects from my kids suddenly sent me into an emotional journey through memory lane. Memories of times of happiness, where I genuinely thought I was happily married, not a perfect one, but a happy one. One that was worth it.
One day I just gave up. I couldn’t take another second of organizing, sorting, or anything related to the house and the move. I just wanted everything to disappear. It was emotionally grueling. Too many memories, a symbol of a whole lifetime. A life that had now come to an ending but one that gave me beautiful children, moments of pure happiness, sadness, anxiety, celebration, illnesses, losses, joy, laughter, and tears.
Imagine everything that can happen in thirty years.
It was time to start over—another life, or maybe just another chapter in that same book.
It took me ten days to sell the house that was ours for twenty years, and two months to leave it.
I had no clue where I was moving, but I had the certainty that I was bound to find the apartment of my dreams.
And that was precisely what happened. Twenty days later, I feel in love with what is now my home.
This was all unfolding during especially stressful times for other reasons. If I were to look back today, I have no idea where I found the strength to do all that I managed and not die in the process.
The day I left my home, I went through every room, the playroom that later turned into a common area, the kitchen, my room, and our backyard.
The house was empty. The feeling was awkward.
I turned around and left for my new home without hesitation. I didn’t look back.
It was days, or maybe weeks later, that I found myself passing in front of it.
It was inevitable. Almost impossible.
I stopped the car and parked at the entrance.
It looked good as always, but it looked sad. I almost fell like we shared that same feeling of sadness, that same pain. I felt that we had a connection, and it almost felt like we both were trying to lift each other.
Weeks later, I came across the surprise that my beautiful, strong, unique house was completely gone. It had been demolished, and all that was left of it were shattered pieces of what used to be my home.
Sometimes we have to destroy to give room to rebuild.
Just like the house.
On my last visit, I saw a beautiful building; the construction was almost finished. The front door was adjacent to the other side of the street where I parked.
Everything had changed.
Just like my life.
I felt happy that the building was symbolic for me. It had perfect clean lines and modern architecture.
Sitting in my car, I contemplated the building, and I wished that all of the future tenants lived genuinely happy lives and made memories of their own.
I had been happy. My kids had been happy.
From that day forward, my process of healing accelerated.
There was one specific detail that was somewhat “ particular” per se. It was in this house were so many times I wondered if my husband was having an affair. I confronted him countless times. He always blatantly denied.
There was no night that he didn’t come home to bed, he never missed a birthday party or any celebration with exemption when he was away due to his hectic business traveling schedule.
In that house, my husband told me he was no longer attracted to me as a woman. Probably the worst comment a woman can ever hear.
It was in this house that on a cold winter night, my husband took me to the terrace once the kids were in bed and told me what was bound to change my life. Forever.
In this house, on that terrace, that night, I felt shocked, but I wasn’t surprised.
In this house, on that terrace, that night, I felt rage, but compassion as well.
In this house, on that terrace, that night, my husband told me: “ I have a friend, and I’m in trouble, but I promise it’s not what you think.”
That cold night in that big house turned to be one of the hardest, most challenging, and confusing moments I have ever experienced.
It was the night that my biggest fears turned into reality. It was that night in that big house were the hardest, most painful years of my life took place. But these were also the days were I build character, and am the person I am today.
I grew as a human being.
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