We’ve been residing in what we now call the “new house” for a little over a month. A few boxes remain unpacked—mostly filled with books and office supplies—safely tucked away in drawers or on shelves, largely forgotten. There’s a stack of furniture in the entryway ready for donation because there simply isn’t room for those pieces that once fit perfectly in the house we envisioned as our “forever home,” the place where our family of four shared so many memories.
Yet, most of our daily life has settled into a routine here. We’ve adorned the walls with photographs that transformed the starkness of the new house into something warmer and more inviting. While we’re thankful for this space, it still feels foreign. Just the other day, my daughter, Lily, asked if we could go back to our forever home, her eyes shining with hope. It broke my heart to explain that the forever home now belonged to strangers, who couldn’t possibly understand the depth of our memories in each room. Watching her smile fade felt like a weight pressing down on us; that home was no longer ours, and this new house is just that—a house, a place where we sleep and occasionally share hurried meals between activities.
I can’t recall it taking this long for our former forever home to feel like ours. In my hazy memory, clouded by the passage of time and the pain of loss, I remember the joy we felt as we moved in. Back then, my kids were small, and we spent more time together at home, not rushing from practice to practice. Now, our family unit is smaller, just three of us instead of four, and filling the space seems much harder.
Perhaps it’s not about the new house at all, but rather the shattered promise that the word “forever” carries. After losing my husband, Tom, to cancer, the concept of forever felt irrevocably shattered. The notion that all stories end in joy and that everything has a purpose no longer holds true.
If forever is lost, can we still find home in a house? If home is where the heart is and our hearts are broken, does that mean the idea of home is broken too? I don’t have all the answers. I just know that the meaning of home has become more complex.
In the hardest moments, when Tom’s brain cancer altered his ability to think clearly—arguing that scissors could replace pens or pouring cereal onto the floor instead of using a bowl—I often thought, “I just want to go home.” Ironically, I was already in our forever house but felt an overwhelming longing for comfort.
Home sometimes transcends a physical space; it can be the person you love who is right in front of you but feels distant because the joy they brought is now a memory. Home is the laughter from past family movie nights, cherished moments we once took for granted. It’s more than just walls and furniture; it embodies a sense of belonging.
Maybe home is recognizing that we are where we need to be, even if it doesn’t feel like home yet. The new house may take time to feel like home for us, the family of three. I sense we have a long journey ahead, but there’s hope. With time, love, and resilience, we might find comfort again. Because even broken hearts deserve a place to call home.
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In summary, after losing my husband, we moved into a new house that still feels strange. Our previous forever home holds bittersweet memories that are hard to let go of. While we are grateful for our new space, the journey to feeling at home is ongoing.