This is particularly true today. Today my Mom moves out of our childhood home, the place that I grew up in. Yesterday was sad, very sad. I cried all the car journey home. Back to my two bedroom flat in the City Centre. That place has seen all the ups and downs, of us four people, for the last thirty years. I drove home remembering electronics sets, exotic sweeties from Miami, crying on my bed with all that teenage angst, family parties, Christmasses, marble runs in the garden, dens, my Dad’s last moments in that house, telling my Mom I needed to move out. The last thirty years passed before me on that car journey home.
But look what moving out did for me! I moved out in June 2010. I started to get – happier. Eventually I got out of a horrible relationship with a man who treated me like his cat, like I was nothing more than a nuisance around his feet. I went to more meetups, spoke more Spanish and French than ever before, rekindled friendships I’d lost in the intense depression of that house after my Dad died.
“And here we are in San Francisco.” – as we sat in that Irish pub one night at New Year, each couple telling our stories of how we met. Without my twenty-seven years of living there, I would not be where I am now. Good-bye house.