We’re selling our house and preparing to relocate. I can already hear your thoughts—you’re probably envious, picturing the excitement of packing up a home filled with memories after six years, all while managing the chaos of three children. Let me tell you, it’s a blend of emotions.
“The objective is to make it feel like the potential buyers’ space, not yours,” a real estate agent bluntly reminds me.
I start by getting the carpets cleaned, scrubbing away the remnants of daily life—nail polish stains, grimy fingerprints, and crayon marks—thankfully, they all wash away.
I organize closets, donate unused furniture, and dispose of expired snacks. I gather stray coins (my husband’s), Lego pieces (the kids’), and mini moisturizers (mine) before tucking away baby clothes and sleep sacks we no longer need. But then…I stumble upon memories.
There’s an old photograph my partner took of me just before he proposed. My gaze is fixed on a VHS case in a video rental store (remember those?), deep in thought about what to watch that evening. I look so content, so care-free, and I can’t help but leave it out on my dresser for a while longer.
I put away framed pictures of the boys—some capturing their baby faces, others showing the cheeky grins of toddlers. I hide treasured bedtime stories in drawers and box up the “daily sheets” chronicling their daycare years, which I’ve kept every single one. The water table, now cracked from this winter’s chill, sits on the curb, reminding me of the joy my boys had playing with it.
I clear out my closet, tossing aside skinny jeans. It feels liberating. I finally get rid of my old law school outlines but hold onto a college paper on The Social Contract, tucked away under the bed.
Letting go of the rocking chair that belonged to my mother is tough, but it’s broken. It’s time to say goodbye.
I scrub and clean, trying to erase every trace of our lives here. But the truth is, we’ve lived here. This is where my boys learned to crawl, where we soothed them to sleep in the hallways, and where I sat on the roof deck with my firstborn during warm summer nights.
See those scratches on the kids’ bedroom door? That’s from a tantrum that sent my son kicking it into the bookcase. And those marks on the kitchen cabinets? They’re from bike rides through the house on cold days when outdoor play wasn’t an option.
This staircase? It’s where I labored with my first child, counting the early contractions that set everything into motion. And that front door? We walked through it with each of our babies, bringing them home from the hospital just a few blocks away. The rocking chair in the corner? It cradled my three sons as I nursed them, with “Baby Mine” softly playing in the background.
Now, we’re moving on. A new state, new schools, new jobs, and new friends await us—a fresh start is always invigorating. Yet, I’ll deeply miss these playgrounds, these familiar streets, and how my kids know the way to school by heart. Our neighbors have become friends, and it’s hard to imagine not seeing them daily.
As I pack and declutter, I realize it’s not about the bricks and mortar. It’s what we’ve built as a family—the memories we created—that we carry with us. Our essence, who we are, transcends these four walls.
While we strive to present this house as another’s home, it will always hold a piece of us.
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Summary:
The journey of moving from a cherished home filled with memories can evoke a complex mix of emotions. As the author prepares to relocate, she reflects on the countless moments that shaped her family’s life within those walls. While the physical space may change, the essence of the family and their shared experiences will always remain with them.