It occurred to me recently that I don’t hate the house any more. I don’t exactly loooove it, but we’ve come to a good place, house and I. I feel better about living here – being stuck here – and I think I actually use most of the rooms. Well, I don’t use youngest’s room – that’s hers (and, um, kind of messy), and I use the office only to retrieve documents from the printer. I actually do sit in the living room and watch TV in the living room.
This time last year I used, well, the kitchen (for the obvious) and my bedroom. I even ate a lot of meals in the bedroom. I’ve come a long way, I think.
Part of why I like it now is because most of Mr. Ex’s things are finally gone. There are still a few vestiges of stuff (and we won’t even talk about the shed in the back, or the chemicals in the garage), but he’s pretty much gone from the house. That feels good. It didn’t help to be tripping over his things and trying to figure out how to maneuver the demise of a 30-year marriage.
I’ve also done a teensy bit of redecorating to suit me. A new kitchen table, new towels, some funky new platters. An old chair in a new place. A new use for an old bassinet.
It’s starting to feel more like my house and less like the house that used to be ours.
I still plan to put it on the market, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sell it, so I’m happier knowing that we’ve come to an understanding, house and me.