For just over a month now, my family of three has been residing in what we refer to as the “new home.” A few boxes remain unpacked—mostly filled with books and office supplies, the items that tend to get shoved into drawers or placed on shelves and quickly forgotten. There’s also a fair amount of furniture accumulating in the entryway, destined for donation, as there’s simply no space for those pieces that once fit perfectly in the house we envisioned to be our “forever home”—the place we cherished as a family of four.
Most of our daily essentials have been unpacked, and we’ve adorned the previously bare walls with our photographs, bringing some warmth to the space. We feel fortunate to have a roof over our heads, and we’re mostly adjusting to our new routines. Yet, a lingering sense of loss remains…
Just the other day, my son overheard me mention the forever home, and his eyes lit up with hope. “Do we have our home back?” he asked, referring to the forever house now occupied by strangers who are unaware of our story and the memories that linger within its walls. I had to gently shake my head, watching his smile fade under the weight of disappointment. That home was lost to us. The new house feels just that—a house, a place for sleeping and hurried meals when time allows between after-school activities.
I can’t recall it taking this long for our forever home to feel like ours. In my memory, which may be clouded by time and grief, that house enveloped us in a sense of belonging from the moment we arrived. Perhaps it was because, back then, the children were younger, and we spent more time within those walls instead of darting from one activity to another. Now, our family unit is smaller; we are three instead of four, and it requires more effort to fill the silence.
Or maybe the issue lies not with the new house but with the broken promise that forever implies. Life as we knew it has been irrevocably altered by loss; the concept of forever seems shattered, along with the fairytale belief that every story ends happily and that everything unfolds for a reason.
If forever no longer exists, can a house truly become a home? If home is synonymous with the heart, and the heart is fractured, does that also mean the notion of home is broken? I’m unsure. Yet, I understand that the essence of home is more intricate than it initially appears.
On the hardest days, when my husband’s brain cancer robbed him of his logic and reason, I often found myself yearning to go home. Ironically, I was already in the forever house I had loved; still, I was overwhelmed by a longing for something more. Because sometimes, home is not merely a physical location; it can also be a person standing before you, even as you grieve their absence. Home is often the echo of laughter shared during family movie nights, moments we took for granted, unaware that happiness could be fleeting. Home transcends mere walls and furniture.
Perhaps home is also the recognition that you are where you’re meant to be, albeit in a new form. This realization may be tinged with sadness, suggesting that our new house might not feel like home for quite some time. I sense that our family of three has a long journey ahead, with mountains still to climb. Yet, maybe there is hope in this, as it implies that with time, love, and light, we will discover a sense of belonging once more. I truly hope so, because home is where the heart rests, and even a broken heart deserves a place to call home.
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Summary: After losing her husband, Laura navigates the emotional landscape of moving into a new home with her son. The process of filling the space left by their forever home proves challenging, stirring reflections on what home truly means amidst grief and change. As they settle into their new routines, Laura grapples with the idea of home being more than just a physical place.
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