The Loss in Divorce No One Talks About

I’m sitting in my car in the grocery store parking lot. It’s a gorgeous sunny day and I need to pick up kids’ school lunch items because, yasssss, my kids are going back to school full-time.

Why am I not going in? Because I can’t stop crying. Full-on sobbing. I try to catch my breath and slap myself into submission. Nothing works. The tears pour.

My name will be off my house’s title this week. Joseph’s refinancing is scheduled to complete in the next 48 hours.

This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve bitched about for months. It’s single-handedly the thing that kept me from moving out. From moving on.

I prepped myself for this mentally. Giving up this house was part of my struggle with wanting a divorce. It’s bigger than I ever hoped we could afford in California. It underwent a serious renovation as soon as we moved in. The bathroom is ergonomically designed the way I wanted. My kitchen island is massive and perfect for all my cookie decorating. The cupboards were fresh and new; nothing gross or icky was leftover from previous owners.

It was supposed to be my Forever Home. Or at least, my I’m Not Fucking Moving Again For At Least 10 Years Home. I imagined my children as teenagers in this house, hanging out in the pool and making the carpets wet as they ran inside.

I struggled but I plowed through as I waited for this slow-as-lard divorce process to advance. Eventually, I made peace with it. Or so I thought. I almost began hating the home because we were stuck inside due to the Covid social restrictions. Redfin was my porn as I imagined my new life in overpriced homes.

But now it’s real. It’s happening. Suddenly, I feel gutted.

Maybe it would be different if we sold the house and moved our separate ways. It’s easier this way, for me to move out and not rush to find anything or deal with Joseph’s home buying stress. We could say goodbye and not look back. But he has the funds to buy me out with his inheritance (not split in a divorce) and his half of my retirement (which sadly, is split in a divorce).

But because I’m being bought out, that means the house is adjacent to my life. I’ll still fill out the address on forms when they involve the kids. I’ll visualize them there when I’m not with them. When I’m bleaching the shit out of the disgusting, shabby cupboards in my new place I’ll remember how I took the time to line every single drawer and cabinet when the renovation finished so that it maintained its pristine quality; Joseph will continue to reap the benefits from my effort.

The tears won’t stop.

Why didn’t anyone tell me that losing my home would feel like someone died?

I feel a profound sadness down to my bones. I thought my feelings for this house had fled when it turns out, my hands were clutching them with a death-grip.

It’s not just the house that makes it hurt.It’s the loss of the memories I’ll never have. This house was supposed to contain future happy moments with my kids. It’s like I lost a camera that contained images of the next 10 years with smiling, happy children in a house we made a home.It’s like I lost a camera that contained images of the next 10 years with smiling, happy children in a house we made a home.

I’ll never know what those pictures looked like.

Part of me will miss the aesthetics and the comfort that comes from designing something just for your needs. I’ll never have the money to buy a massive house and gut it; my parents won’t be leaving me a massive inheritance because unlike Joseph’s parents, they didn’t buy property in the most expensive city in California sixty years ago. This is the peak of my quality of life unless I win the lottery or marry a dying old man à la Anna Nicole Smith.

The other part is the ghost of future memories this house holds, like a box with my kids’ faces on them. I’ll never open that box. I’ll never experience those joys. I know, I know; I’ll have my own joys in different ways blah blah. That box doesn’t exist yet. All I have is the loss of this house without the promise or plan of a new one.

My heart is aching for those memories. I renovated the kids’ bathroom with them being teenagers in mind. The left side plug for my daughter’s blow dryer she’ll use before hanging out with friends. The new mirror my son will look in before going on his first date. The two separate cubbies in the shower so they can’t argue over who is using each other’s stuff despite that they will anyway. The separated cabinets that one day will hold my daughter’s period stuff; will it happen for the first time when she’s in this house and I won’t be there to help?

This is the house my kids will see as “home” for a long time before they eventually get used to wherever I move to. Coming to see me won’t be “home” during the most traumatic moment of their young lives. I have to build it from scratch.

I had no idea. I had no idea that I could be excited for a new future while grieving the loss of my house and the memories that I’ll never experience.