I look back and think, I loved this house so much!
But I didn’t. I really didn’t. Everything about that house drove me crazy:
The smallness of the rooms. The cramped spaces. The constant claustrophobia. Three people total could fit in a room at one time. For real. Otherwise, people were coming out the windows.
The layout. The main living room was upstairs. And the kitchen was downstairs all the way in the back. I would leave the baby in the living room, run downstairs for a bottle, dash back up and hope to God he didn’t electrocute himself or choke on a marker cap.
The garden. Sure it looks pretty. But taking care of it was pretty much a full-time job. That we sucked at. Basically, on our watch, the garden was all bare patches and weeds. And everyone once in a while, when we worked in it, it looked great. Like at our wedding.
Not one closet — not one! — on the entire first floor. No basement, no attic, no storage space whatsoever. No linen closet, no drawers, no place, basically, to put all your stuff.
Crackheads on the corner. Gunshots. Break-ins. All those little things that really aren’t charming, despite the cobblestone sidewalks.
So why the pangs every time I look at the pictures of our old house? Why the heartache?
I think mostly because it’s over.
We lived in that house for seven years. And now it’s gone.