We had so much hope when we signed the final paperwork to purchase our home. My fingers were crossed that no major repairs would have to be made, the foundation would remain intact, and trees wouldn’t topple onto the roof. I’d no idea our marriage would be the first thing to fall apart.
Saying goodbye to the house was almost harder than bidding my husband farewell. It meant all hope was lost for a future there. A grand family room window positioned over the spacious back yard would never again host holiday gatherings while a carpet of snow covered the lawn and a crackling fireplace played as background music. No more Christmas Eves sitting around an eight-foot tree in front of that plate glass.
I look at the hole in the wall next to the window, the exact size of the back of my head, that's never been repaired. There would be no more blood to wipe off the wall or broken glass to clean up from the floor. No more 9-1-1 calls made in the middle of the night. Never again.
I loved this house and tried my best to make it a comfortable home. My husband had different plans that made our original dreams impossible. A distant memory now.
Because I had the courage to leave and would not withstand his brutality again. With a heavy sigh, I turned away from the picturesque window and walked back toward the door to leave. A final bittersweet but triumphant goodbye.
*This post was prompted by #GetYourWriteOn at Indie Chick Lit.