We’ve been in our new home for just over a month now, a space my family of three refers to as the “new house.” A few boxes remain unpacked, mostly filled with books and office supplies, items stashed away in drawers or perched on shelves, easily overlooked. There’s also a fair amount of furniture stacked in the entryway, all destined for donation. Those pieces once fit perfectly in what was meant to be our “forever home”—the place we inhabited as a happy family of four.
Most of our daily essentials are unpacked now. We’ve adorned the previously bare walls with our family photos, injecting warmth into the rooms that once felt so cold. We’re thankful for this new house, and we’ve mostly settled into a routine. Yet, a shadow of loss lingers.
The other day, my son caught me reminiscing about the forever home, and hope sparked in his eyes. “Do we have our home back?” he asked, meaning the forever home now occupied by strangers—people who have no idea of our past, who can’t sense the echoes of our family life in each room. I had to shake my head, watching his smile vanish as disappointment washed over him. That home was in the past, and this new house feels more like just a structure than a real home—a place where we sleep and occasionally eat, if we’re not too rushed after extracurricular activities.
I can’t recall how long it took for the forever home to truly feel like our sanctuary. In my memory, colored by nostalgia and grief, it seemed like home from the moment we arrived, when I naively announced that we would never leave. Perhaps back then, with young kids filling the space, we spent more time together instead of rushing from one commitment to another. Now, our family unit is smaller, just three of us instead of four, making it harder to fill the void.
Mary N/Reshot
Maybe the challenge lies not in the new house itself but in the shattered promise that the term “forever” implies. The reality of life, marked by loss and heartache, has dismantled the notion of forever. It’s a truth that resonates deeply in a world where cancer has claimed my husband, where my children grapple with the permanence of his absence. The fairy tale endings we once believed in feel distant, and the idea that everything happens for a reason is hard to accept.
So if forever no longer exists, can a house transform into a home without that security? If home is where the heart resides—and if our hearts are broken—does it mean the concept of home is fractured, too? I’m not sure. All I know is that the idea of home is far more complex than it seems.
On my worst days, while my husband battled the effects of brain cancer, I often thought: “I just want to go home.” Even while inside the forever home I never wanted to leave, I felt an overwhelming need to escape. Because home is not merely a location. Sometimes, it’s a person standing before you—someone you miss deeply as their essence has been taken away. Home echoes with laughter from family movie nights we took for granted, moments fleeting and precious. It transcends walls and furniture.
Perhaps home is ultimately the realization that you are exactly where you need to be, at the right moment. This can be bittersweet, as it suggests that our new house might not feel like home for a while. The three of us still have a journey ahead, many mountains to climb. Yet, there’s hope; with time, love, and light, we may find that sense of belonging again.
I hold onto that hope, for even broken hearts deserve a place to call home.
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Summary
After the loss of my husband, my family of three moved into a new house, leaving behind what we called our “forever home.” While we’ve settled in, the new space still feels more like a house than a home. The absence of my husband has complicated our sense of belonging, making it challenging to adjust. Yet, there’s hope that in time, love, and healing, this new house can become our home.
Keyphrase: Moving on after loss
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