By Annette Gulati
@AnnetteGulati

My husband and I creep through the gloomy house, rain hammering the roof, lightening bursting through the windows, followed by booms of thunder. The real estate agent beams her flashlight into corners, up and down stairs, behind doors. The light fixtures not yet installed, the hardwood floors still covered with cardboard, but something whispers hope from the shadows. Hints at joy. Murmurs love.

The following day, we return to the house—it’s officially our house now, an offer accepted, a contract signed. My husband hops out the back door, the stairs still missing out to the patio, and he holds out his arms. I jump into them, and we twirl around like a pair of newlyweds with a bright shiny future ahead of us.

For seven years, we raise our preteens and teenagers, those ages testing us as parents, humans—not exactly the glistening life we’d expected. But the house stood with us, behind us, always polished, a burrow of safety and comfort. I never thought we’d ever leave.

Until we put the house on the market. Out of necessity, my husband starts a new job 200 miles north, the twins wrap up their last year of high school, and our oldest graduates college. I know things are changing, but I busy myself in the chaos of moving and graduations. The house sells immediately, like a slap in my face. I want to cancel the contract, take it back.

We’ve sold previous homes, moved to different states and every time, I buzz with excitement, confident each would provide our family with the tranquility a home was supposed to provide. Somehow, this feels different. Harder. Darker. Solemn. I have no interest in decluttering the past or disposing of old things that won’t fit the future of our lives. I have no idea what that future even looks like.

When the moving van departs, my husband and I scrub the white subway tile in the kids’ bathroom, mop the cherry hardwood floors, vacuum the beige carpet that has been our cushioned foundation. Our son eats the perishables from the fridge, gulps the nonfat milk from the carton. Wasn’t he just lining up his Matchbox cars in rows and circles under the dining room table? The three of us take a selfie at my insistence. The girls have already left. Wasn’t it just yesterday they sang Brittany Spears songs and danced around the living room? Now, the house is empty and hollow. Noiseless. I glance at the pale gold walls I painted myself. We lock the front door for the last time, and I try not to look back.

My husband and I drive our separate cars to the freeway ramp, me stopped at the red light in one lane, him in the other. I glance over at him, teary-eyed, heart shrinking, throat tightening. I don’t want to leave this house, this town, this state. This era of motherhood. This time, I have no desire to start all over.

I weep on and off all the way up Interstate 5. In the bathroom at the rest stop halfway there, in the Wendy’s parking lot before attempting to eat a salad I won’t finish, on the main street of our new town. My husband tailgates me, likely fearing I’ll lose sight of the road, and drive into a ditch. It’s not an understatement. Still, I feel ridiculous, weak.

We agree to buy a smaller house this time, although I insist it has enough room for when the children come home. They will come home, won’t they? The twins leave for college two states away, and the oldest isn’t far, but she doesn’t live with us. My husband and I are alone again after twenty two years.

I need to make the new home our own. But what does that even look like? Without drawings to hang on the refrigerator or dance clothes to pick up off the bedroom floor. Without Lego collections to sort or puzzle pieces to find. Without arguments to break up or laughter to buoy my heart. Without the quiet whispers late at night or the unexpected hugs before breakfast.

I can only think of the old house, wondering if the new owners have spotted seven years of our memories floating around its rooms. If they understood our children reached adulthood in that house. If anyone recognized I’d done some of my toughest, yet finest mothering in that house.

I need to make the new home our own, but it doesn’t whisper joy or murmur love. Instead, I grow to hate it. For its emptiness. For what it stands for. The loss of my five-person family. The loss of what I believe is my motherhood. And yet I’m aware, in my core, my children aren’t returning. Old house or new. I have to get used to that.

And so I paint a bedroom, buy a houseplant, hang some photos on the wall, and I wait.

Annette Gulati lives and writes from Seattle, WA. She enjoys when her children come home to visit, and hopes her next house will be filled with plenty of energetic grandchildren. 

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