Have you ever been engrossed in a captivating novel, eagerly anticipating each new chapter, only to be let down by a lackluster ending? You finish the last page, staring blankly, thinking, “Is that really how it ends?” Sometimes, a sequel can provide a sense of redemption, but what if this is where your story concludes?
As I pack up the final box in preparation for our move, I can’t help but reflect on the journey we’ve had in this home. This chapter is closing, and it feels bittersweet. We’re leaving behind a house that my partner, Mark, and I purchased five years ago, vowing it would be our “forever home.” With four little ones under the age of six at the time, we were thrilled to settle in Mark’s childhood neighborhood, just a mile away from the school we envisioned for our kids.
The expansive yard was a playground for our children, where countless shoes surrendered to the mud of the creek and woods behind our home. The well-loved wooden playset and sandbox were a daily source of joy, save for the rainy days and frigid winters. I often found myself chasing after the kids and our dog, enduring the scratches on the hardwood floors as they raced up and down the stairs. Mark’s playful energy brought life to our evenings as he wrestled with the kids on the carpet—always at precisely the wrong time, like bedtime!
This home has witnessed countless diapers, an abundance of Band-Aids, and enough lost Legos to keep the new owners busy for months. I’ll always treasure memories of bare feet on the grass, sidewalk chalk masterpieces, summer popsicles, snow angels, and epic snowball fights. The dark cherry kitchen cabinets and outdated tile backsplash were meant for a fabulous makeover; I had dreams of channeling my inner Joanna Gaines to create a space perfect for cooking and entertaining—though let’s be honest, entertaining would have been more my style than culinary prowess.
We had plans to add another bathroom upstairs, so our daughters wouldn’t have to share a single sink during their teenage years. That swingset was intended to become the site of our future pool, where our kids could splash and make memories with friends throughout the summers of their lives.
However, my 42 years have taught me that life rarely goes according to plan. The chapters of our lives are not penned by us. As I confront the reality of this ending, I realize that no more diaper changes await me. There will be no more children learning to ride bikes on our street. For most of my children, Santa Claus is now relegated to the realm of fairy tales. Someone else will decide whether to put a pool in that yard, and Mark won’t be here to witness his daughters dressed up for prom, perched atop the staircase banister in a decade.
We are closing this chapter, and it feels like a disappointing book. A husband lost, children without a father, an overwhelming move of 800 boxes all on my own, and that ugly tile backsplash still in place. This cannot be the conclusion I was meant to have.
The next chapter remains unwritten. I don’t know if it will bring joy or sorrow, nor do I know how many more moves might lie ahead or if this will be our final destination. I am certain, however, that wherever we go, there will be Band-Aids, Legos, scratched floors, and the beautiful memories of the best father who ever was.
What I truly hope for, dear friends, is a sequel. A chance to rewrite this story’s ending. I won’t attempt to control it; instead, I aim to embrace the next adventure with open arms, striving to create a bestseller from this point forward. Thank you for joining us on this journey as we navigate the unwritten chapters ahead.
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Summary
In her reflective piece, Jessica Taylor compares her life’s journey to an unfinished book, facing the bittersweet closure of a chapter filled with memories in a “forever home.” As she prepares to move on, she grapples with the loss of her partner and the uncertainty of what lies ahead, hoping for a sequel that brings redemption and happiness.