This past weekend L and the kids moved out of the family home. It was inevitable but not something I wanted nor welcomed. I left there myself more than 18 months ago as a result of a number of things but I am learning to attempt to live without regret. I do believe that in the long term it was the best decision for all of us.
Nonetheless, with someone new moving into my old home next weekend I can't help but feel saddened. That is the house where we brought our four children home, where the birthdays and Christmases were celebrated, where the remains of five beloved family pets are buried. It echos with memories of that past life, of happier times when there were hints of a different future lurking just beyond tomorrow.
It has given a sense of place to my life for more than 25 years, more than a house, it was home in the true context of all that word encompasses.
So it is now yet another step along the way of moving on. I have signed over the home to L and she is in the process of paying out the joint mortgages and taking one in her own right. The house is hers now, or at least it will be when the paperwork is fnalised, and I don't even really have any right to comment. I hope that the new living arrangements work. I hope the kids know that they can live with me if they wish to. I trust that the love of parents is more necessary and comforting than the physical reality of a house.
I want nothing more for all of us than the belief that at some time there will be a new home somewhere, somewhen.