In 2010, plagued by sticky July heat, L and a good friend of his flew into Boston Logan Airport and rented a large Penske truck, which they proceeded to fill with the meager contents of my second-story apartment while I remained largely inert—paralyzed by my mixed feelings over leaving the state that had been my home for twenty years and the idea of moving back to the more conservative South. The tale of the trip itself—involving three tired adults, one cranky nine-year-old, and a very unhappy cat—is probably best left to another time, but we eventually made it to the tiny cottage L had rented for me and my son. Our intention was to give the two of us time to be alone together in a new place—a state my child did not know, a school he’d never attended—so he might feel reassured that his well-being was my first priority (perhaps for the first time in a long while).
After two years of reacclimating to life below the Mason-Dixon Line and having already married L in an overt act of civil disobedience (also a story for another day), it was time for my son and I to move the two miles down the road to the home L had purchased nearly ten years before. His mother was already well-ensconced in the house—occupying a large in-law suite that had been added behind the two-car garage following her battle with an aggressive form of cancer.
The place was already filled with antique furniture, art, tchotchkes. Decorated with the help of L’s ex at the time of purchase, it sported 1990’s border trim on the walls, aging gray wall-to-wall carpet, and the original avocado sink and Formica countertops in the postage-stamp-sized kitchen. There was precious little room for my own things, so I sold or gave away most of what I owned. L, understanding my need to create a comfortable home, let me do what I could with what little I had left. The double-sized overstuffed burgundy chair, bought as part of a set with my ex-wife in the mid-1980s was wedged into the living room—decidedly out of place alongside two mid-century modern chairs and a large coffee table made by his grandfather around that same time. My only other contributions were the heavily worn cedar hope chest I had received for my eighteenth birthday and some framed prints from my days working in Manhattan when I’d visit the MOMA or the Met on a nearly daily basis.
The house, and its contents, reflected me not at all. There were moments when I absolutely hated it and was embarrassed to invite others over. It was through no fault of my husband’s—he had promised his mother that he would never force her to give up any more than she felt she already had, that he would find a place for her many belongings, which spilled over into each room, upstairs and down. Over the years I would make small changes here and there—a new set of placemats or dishes, a hand-me-down loveseat from my folks, a fresh coat of paint or new curtains in the dining area. Every alteration I made was met with disapproving looks or snide remarks from my mother-in-law, with whom I had a complicated relationship (that story, too, must be set aside for now). And yet, I persisted.
In the months that followed her death in 2023, our small remaining family began the process of overhauling the house. My son and I emptied her suite of its contents and moved him—post-college graduation—from a 10x10 upstairs bedroom to the much larger space so that he could have his own “digs,” so to speak. L and I busied ourselves with moving furniture; rearranging rooms; replacing an old, worn sofa; painting outdated wood paneling. L refinished the back deck with new stain and railings; planted a memorial garden for his mother, complete with a wrought iron gazebo and her favorite flowers. The projects were not expensive, but they were all things we’d put off because years of caring for her had become as much a full-time job as those that paid.
By the time we decided to sell and move, in late January 2025, I had grown to love the house and everything in it. It felt as comfortable and warm as a favorite blanket on a quiet snow day. I had done all I could do to assert my own personality—and that of our partnership, marriage, and the child we had raised together—on our home. Fifteen years after my reluctant relocation, I was facing another uprooting, and my hackles were high.
Deepak Chopra is credited with having said “All great changes are preceded by chaos.” The following four months would most definitely bear that out—the end result would bring me more comfort and joy than that cluttered old house ever had—but I was not ready. I was not ready at all.