The Move Part 3 - The Finale

It’s Done

Last month, my husband and I successfully sold our home of 37-plus years. I’d heard hair-raising stories of closings that went wrong, but thankfully, our closing went smoothly.

The weeks leading up to the closing, however, were anything but.

We secured our house’s elusive Certificate of Occupancy, but the buyer’s title company disputed the property lines, putting us under a tight deadline to talk to and secure notarized affidavits from neighbors bordering our property. Though we moved into our new apartment, we had to return to the house to shower and cook for two weeks while we chased after the gas utility company to turn on our service. Emptying the rooms, deciding what to part with, what to save, and getting rid of stuff was both physically and emotionally taxing. And we’d forgotten about a small attic!

Our adult son and his large, older dog, Winston, were still living in the house, sleeping on a blowup mattress, basically squatting amongst the unwanted remains, and amid everything, we moved him and his dog to an apartment in Brooklyn. Winston had spent much of his 10+ years with us in the house, and all the changes agitated him. His palpable anxiety added stress to our days. I felt homesick even before leaving the house.

Those last two weeks, I slept fitfully, and I cried. A lot.

I cried every time a neighbor or friend stopped by.

I cried every time someone asked me about the move.

I’ve decided that selling a home is like breaking up with someone. You can tick off a list of why it makes sense, can imagine a better life ahead, but when it comes to making the break, it’s scary. Good or bad, there’s a comfort in the known.

Embarrassed by my endless tears, I told a friend, “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying. It’s not like someone died.” She said it was. That I was essentially mourning a part of my life, like a person who is no longer with me on the journey of life.

That rang true.

My husband and I broke the connection of the known, departed from the comfort of continuous, well-worn routines. In mid-September, the night before closing, before I shut the door on our scrubbed and emptied house, I thanked our home for its comfort and shelter, and for all the memories.

Last week, I stopped in to see a former neighbor, and as I sat with her over a cup of tea, I could see my old home through her kitchen window.

And I felt okay. No tears. No grief. I was calm.

I sensed that the hardest part was finally over.

I miss parts of my house, the cozy sitting spaces, our spacious closets, and almost everything that made my neighborhood worth living in — the people, library, stores, and services that we frequented. But with no yard or house repairs to be done, the hubby and I are taking regular walks together, exploring our new, temporary neighborhood. Finding new places to eat, shop, and get services. And most importantly, finding a great pizza place.

The next step is finding a new, permanent home near my daughter and her family, but since the move, my husband has been uninterested in talking about it. The other night, though, as I was cleaning up after dinner, he showed me online house listings. I couldn’t help but smile knowing he’s okay, too. And more, he’s ready, as am I, to move forward.

Photo by zhixian-chen-ya on Unsplash

Inventory of houses in and around my daughter’s neighborhood are low and prices high, but I decided to leave that up to God and the Universe — to trust that when the time comes, the right house at the right price will be available to us.

For now, I’m grateful for where we are.

We did it. We sold our home. 

And survived.