It’s Just a House… Selling and Leaving My Marital Home

As a kid I moved so often that eventually I tried not to get too attached to places. Neighbourhoods changed. Schools changed. Sometimes even the cities changed. It felt like I was always between boxes being packed and unpacked, in the limbo of temporary locations. I never felt at home so I was always ready to leave.

And then we found this house.

I didn’t love it at first. It was a practical decision. Detached. Parking. Close to the subway. Close to decent schools and lots of parks. It became the first place I truly wanted to stay. The first place I imagined I’d stay forever. Not because it was grand (it wasn’t) but because it was enough. It was even more than I ever dreamed of. The million dollar family. A handsome husband. A vivacious daughter. A cheeky son. There’d been a bad ’70s reno and the kitchen was once an enclosed porch. Through effort and investment it became the home of my dreams. The life I always wanted yet never dared to wish for.

I thought we’d grow old here. One day we could get the fancy couch that children wouldn’t ruin. I was never going to move. I’d joke that I’d have to be carried out feet first.

Then, my marriage ended.

He moved out. I hoped to stay until the kids were done high school. He wanted to sell as soon as possible. I asked for a year. He wanted to sell as soon as possible. We drafted a separation agreement together that granted me that year. He wanted to sell as soon as possible. Then, I lost my full-time job. He still wanted to sell as soon as possible. Another round of mediation later and almost a year to the date that he moved to the basement, we signed a new agreement. So I ended up getting that year but my hope of healing and getting myself together (and another full-time job) was not realized. I was frozen. Stuck. In many ways I feel like I ended the year worse than when I started.

Turns out you can’t heal in the place that broke you.

What I didn’t expect was how the house became the focus of the negotiations. Or how desperate I became to keep it.

To me, the house was the one thing tethering me and our kids to something solid. One of our teenagers was recovering from a serious illness, and the other was struggling. I believed—maybe irrationally, maybe not—that uprooting them would unravel everything.

I tried. I offered options. I did buy myself that year and it cost me anyway.

Prepping the house for sale felt like how in mafia movies the hits have to dig their own graves. They know what’s going to happen and yet they still dig anyway. However, I love that house so I wanted it to show well. And I needed to get the absolute most money out of it for my future. So despite my being almost entirely paralyzed with grief, the house got painted. It got staged. And it sold in a day for a bully offer that was the number we hoped for.

I felt a little relief. I felt kinda numb. Mostly what I still felt was grief.

What I wanted—what I was grieving—wasn’t just the building or the oak tree on the lawn or the backyard we never landscaped properly. I grieved the life I imagined we’d have inside it. I grieved the woman I was when I first walked through the front door, with a preschooler and a baby… hopeful and full of plans. I grieved the version of our family that sat at our kitchen table in the nook I’d always wanted. I grieved the Christmas trees I strung with lights and decorated with ornaments purchased on our travels. I even grieved all of the hard moments, because they were mine.

I found it impossible to pack. Some friends came to help get me started. I dreaded bumping into people I knew who didn’t know. They’d ask how I was doing and when I opened my mouth to answer I genuinely had no idea what would come out. Sometimes it was, “fine!” Or “good!” Or “hanging in there!” And sometimes it was a trauma dump I was unable to control. Most people were very patient and gracious. How did I feel about moving? I didn’t want to. I wanted to grow old and die in that house. “It’s just a house.” “It will be nice to have a fresh start.”

I didn’t want a fresh start. I didn’t want a new beginning. I wanted the life I had. I wanted the life I worked so hard to achieve to work.

And then I found an apartment.

It’s not just any apartment. It’s wonderful. In a lively neighborhood six houses up from the lake. It has soft natural light and high ceilings. It has three bedrooms. It has two car parking! By some miracle it’s within my budget. By an even greater miracle, I got it.

It was the first post-divorce apartment for the lovely woman moving out. She seemed excited about the next stage of her journey. Her kids are a little older than mine. Her youngest was moving away for school. She told me that moving in and moving on was very healing. It felt meant to be.

I always wanted to move back to this neighbourhood. A friend said I manifested this apartment. I’m not sure I believe in that. If I could manifest anything, I would have saved my marriage. I would have kept my house. (It’s just a house!) I know I will love living here in this apartment and yet I never would have chosen this future.

Still, there are signs that I might be okay.

I see love all around me. Real, grown-up love. At fifty-something. The kind of love where you bring all your scars and stories and still get chosen.

So maybe there’s still time. So maybe I’ll fall in love again. Maybe I won’t. But I have my own space. A new home. One that I chose and one that seemingly chose me.

The ache of leaving my marital home hasn’t left me yet. I walked through the house and saw ghosts. Toddlers and teenagers and the woman (me) who held it all together when everything fell apart.

Moving sucks. I cleared every closet. I packed every item. I cleaned every corner. And I drove to the dump. Several times! And I walked out with my head held high. Not carried. Not broken. Not feet first.

Alive.

I closed the door behind me. It locked for the last time. And I’m trying to remember what I really and truly know but don’t yet fully feel:

It’s just a house.

But my heart is still broken to leave it.