Recovery thoughts . . .

It has now been 4 months in our new home and . . . it feels like a milestone because we only spent three-and-a-half months in our first house before we had to move out and back into my old bachelor apartment. I was angry and humiliated that I couldn't keep that house. I loved it. I begged my father to help me stay there for a year, but he refused, despite the fact that he was sitting on my mother's assets, which he promised to distribute among us. In the end, I realized that I just couldn't do it and I let it go. The house was in The Glebe and had character and charm. It felt like a dream come true until the nightmare began. However, here I am just more than 3 years later and living in this little house in a much less desirable neighbourhood, with character and charm of an entirely different order, and I am grateful to my core.

I drove by the old house last week with E when we went to the Canal Ritz for dinner. I looked at it and felt some regret ,but not pain. I never thought I could pass it without feeling anguish. I still may be struggling with the aftermath of that loss, but now that there has been at least one move forward I'm hopeful that I can spend the next three years focusing on everything we do have and making even better things happen.