Monday, June 9, 2014


I went home this weekend.

Not really, but that's the only way I can describe it. It was my home for seven and a half years. I moved because I hated it there. Maybe not in my particular home, but the area, city, county. I hated the people. Not my neighbors, but all the nameless people that I did not know but still acted like their needs trumped mine.

I hadn't been there for several years, and being there was surreal. As I sat in the living room, I remembered the last few months I lived there. That was the room I was in when my RE and Team told me I was pregnant over the phone. That was also the room where I waited for my husband to bring me a bottle of wine after the heartbeat-less ultrasound.

Sitting my the pool, remembering the last time I sat by that pool, I was still pregnant. I couldn't swim, so my husband and neighbors set up a low beach chair on the side so I could dangle my feet in.

Shopping in the Costco where we bought the most beautiful crib on clearance, taking the chance that all would be fine with the pregnancy for a crib that I fell in love with and was such a great price. The same crib we returned about two months later.

Walking through the Target where I bought my first maternity shirt because it was cute, on sale and I was feeling hopeful. I never took that one back. It's still in a box. I wish I could say somewhere, but I know exactly where.

Walking through the park where I was going to take my kids to see movies and dance to live music and  play.

I never want to live there again.


  1. (((HUGS))) Too many heartbreaking memories...I hope you'll never live there again, either.


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