I’m relaxing on my leather couch, bare feet resting on the black coffee table I found on sale years ago. The ceiling fan above me rustles yellow tab-top curtains I hung on the perfect wrought iron rod I took forever to find. The setting sun just outside the sliding glass doors paints the sky in soft golden hues. The dryer lazily spins its load: blue towels I found on clearance one happy afternoon. Music plays on my stereo, a birthday gift from way back when, back when my roots grew in color. Clean dishes, my dishes, stacked drying, ready to be put away.
My things, my memories. But not my home. Not anymore.
His home now.
I’m a visitor, spending his business trip weekend with my kids.
I love being with my kids. Love seeing them first thing in the morning, love making pizza with them, love chatting about the inconsequential details of living. I love the interaction. I’ve always loved the interaction.
But just being a visitor now in my space, my “used to be” home, is so very difficult. It’s all the same. But it’s totally different.
and I can hardly bear it sometimes.