It’s 6:30 AM. I’m sitting alone in my kitchen. MacBook open, coffee steaming in my favorite mug. The whole house is asleep. It’s just me and this house.
This house. This house is not my friend.
We live in the house that my husband grew up in. He bought it off his mom many years ago, and now it’s ours. I never felt at home in this house. I always feel like I’m surrounded in someone else’s memories. Silly, I know.
Whenever I complain to my husband about some aspect of this house, he offers up some explanation that only he could know. Some story from his childhood about why the window doesn’t open or who cracked the tile in the floor. He, who grew up in this house. I feel like he and the house have a secret, and they won’t share it with me.
We always talk about moving, and I tell him that I want to pick my own house. A house with a coat closet and a first floor laundry room and an open floor plan. It’s true, I do want these things. But what I really want, I think, is to make my own memories and not live amongst his.
But I sit here this morning, just me and this house, and I think about how we were upstairs in our old bedroom when he got down on one knee and proposed. And how we brought Maddie home from the hospital to this house, and we stood with her in the living room, looking at each other with no clue what to do. And how both our girls took their first steps and celebrated their first birthdays in this house. I think about the very first time I ever came to this house when I was in high school and he was the boy I liked. And right now, our oldest daughter is asleep in the room we painted pink that used to be his as a child, and I think that’s kind of sweet.
So, I sit here this morning, just me and this house, and realize that I’m sitting amidst my own memories, too. Maybe this house and I are starting to become friends.