Image by Roger Chapman on Unsplash
17 October 2024
Today, home feels like home. Again. It feels weird—and lovely. Soothing, even.
There’s something surreal about having my two eldest children back in the house at a time other than Christmas. For so long, it’s just been me, Black the dog, and Silver the cat—our once bustling home so quiet for so long, hollowed out by death, loss, and grief, as well as the inevitable departures that come with children growing up. Seven years ago, Mike died of cancer. Not long after, our youngest, Julia, died by suicide, in what felt like an echo of her father’s loss. Megan, our middle one, had already gone to boarding school, and Ben, our eldest, went on a gap year just weeks after his dad’s funeral, having just completed his baccalaureate. Our home, once filled with six humans, including an ever-present au pair, had shrunk to just me—though thankfully, the pets were still there to fill some of the void.
But now, if only for a few days, I have both Ben and Megan home. It feels so different. They’re not little anymore, but having them here again feels like a reverberation, an echo of how life used to be—not the same, of course, because their presence only serves to highlight the absence of Mike and Julia.
Yet it offers a glimpse of how things were before everything changed. It’s oddly comforting, like slipping into the contours of an old life, even though we’ve all grown into new versions of ourselves.
There’s a sense of homecoming in their presence, even if only for a moment. The ordinary hum of them moving around the house feels soothing.
Is it abnormally normal, or normally abnormal? I don’t know. But the feeling is one of ease and peace, like a balm gently applied to the still-raw edges of this gaping wound. No—time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it does soften them, at least a little. And for a few days, I get to live in that softened space, in the tenderness of what once was.
Widowing has so profoundly altered what “home” means for me. Home is no longer the vibrant, bustling place it once was. Even if Mike had lived, it would have become quieter by now. But thanks to Ben and Megan’s temporary returns, it feels a little fuller, more alive. And I’ll take that, gratefully—however brief, however fleeting their presence is.
Precious grace in this still abnormal life of mine.
Reading this makes me feel deeply grateful for the phase of motherhood (however messy and tricky) I am currently in with two very young ones. Thank you for sharing and making me realise the gift of being in this with them.