We have recently discussed selling the house, Carrie and the children relocating to a neighboring state which we have always thought fondly of, and of course my finding my own place. We envisioned many weekends of my visiting and staying with the family in their future abode, but my weeks would be essentially my own, remaining here where my career is firmly rooted and where my new life is slowly starting to sprout.
Inquiries were made, house values determined, feasibility considered, and a choice was made: to do it. It was at first a choice like many of late, an abstract decision, a policy statement. Then on Tuesday a phone call, our local real estate broker, a man we have dealt with over the course of two decades. He thinks it is saleable, he is comfortable with the pricing, he wants to meet. So Tuesday night we do, we meet around our “famed” dining room table. He has papers – this is a business transaction, and not insignificant at that – papers to sign. Carrie and I barely look at each other; we both know the reality of the moment. I sign, slide the papers across the table and pen in hand, she does the deed. The house is on the market.
It has become clear that any hope of continued friendship can only be salvaged by my moving along, with my not being a constant reminder when I am there and even more so when I am not. When the house is sold this will happen by default, but that may take a little time, a little too much time. It is funny the breaking points. In January a quick trip to Chicago and a long journey to the basement. And next weekend, a flight to the West Coast, a few days in a gay resort (such civilized phrasing) and a lifetime to think about it, to think in a new home.
I went apartment hunting today, a man on a mission. At 2:30 PM one might have said “Mission Accomplished.” I filled out an application, left a check for a deposit, and became the proud future tenant of unit 2B. I am deep down both terrified and at peace. After November 15th, there will be many nights to wonder how this came to be, to revisit the last two years. But it is time, time to stop the slow bleed and allow us all to try to rebuild our lives, both together and separately. The last person to utter Mission Accomplished publicly has had a little time to regret the words (if said person knew of regrets). I pray that our road will be smoother, particularly for Carrie who has suffered more than she ever deserved.