On a recent weekend morning, I drove past the house we raised our children in. The location is on a side street off the thoroughfare I drive on to meet my Saturday morning running group. I rarely go by the house, as I am usually late for a 7:00 start time. But if I am honest, there is another reason I do not take that detour: it hurts too much to know that it is no longer mine.
As I drive by, I slow down, but not so much to alarm neighbors or passersby. The house and yard look exactly as they did when we sold it in 2017. Well, except that the landscaping is better maintained, the hillside foliage neatly trimmed with precision. It is the same roomy but not ostentatious structure that I always loved, a large daylight basement rambler with soft gray painted siding and white trim.
My husband and I poured our hearts and souls into our home in the two decades we owned it: multiple remodels to open up the kitchen, new staircase and hardwood flooring, bathroom renovations and laundry room upgrade. The bedrooms were updated several times as our kids grew up and eventually moved out.
As time went on, I confronted a growing realization that our house was starting to outgrow us. The massive downstairs bonus room was quiet, and we rarely filled two bedrooms much less six. The stunning guest bathroom with a luxurious walk-in shower and heated tile floors was never used. Don seldom spent time in his large basement study, preferring to open up his laptop in a more vibrant area. The laundry room was used less often over time, the days of washing sports uniforms and sweatpants long over.
Our family was changing. Joyful, but bittersweet, young-adult launchings occurred. The yardwork was expensive to maintain. We hardly used the beautiful living room or dining room, preferring the casual comfort of the kitchen island and family room. Four thousand square feet was simply too much space, and I had a keen sense that our home needed a young family again, that it yearned for the bustle of children with their happy screeches and incessant busyness.
We turned our beloved homestead over to just such a family five years ago. It felt right that we did so, and though I still get misty-eyed when I drive past, I have a peaceful belief that my home is owned by people who are devoted to it.
Selling a house is not just about relinquishing a physical structure. It is recognizing that your life has moved on to a new phase, one that requires something different. I do not need the same property to remind myself of the chaotic happiness of raising our children. I will always remember them charging through the hallway to their bedrooms, slamming doors, throwing things at each other, and hopping on barstools with hungry and appreciative expressions. My kids played whiffle ball in the yard while our lazy little Labrador Retriever looked on.
The house survived intact during our sons’ energetic and occasionally tumultuous adolescent years. Sporting event preparation, loud music, parties, exams, and college applications all took place in various parts of the house. Teenaged boys moved downstairs for privacy and, I suspect, easy access in and out in the middle of the night. They went to college with predictable regularity, my angst at their departures assuaged by knowing they would be coming home during their breaks.
And then their lives and their residences pivoted – for reasons of careers and independence. It was just as it should be, though I felt a maternal tug of emotion about it. Knowing that they no longer needed a place to live felt like they no longer needed their parents.
But I have found out that that is not true. We are great at renting moving vans, handy at pressure washing decks, proficient at picture hanging, efficient at pulling weeds, and exemplary at walking dogs. But at least now when we leave their homes, we do not worry about tasks that did not get completed.
That is their problem now.