The Life I Had to Rebuild
In the midst of grief, betrayal, and single motherhood, a new house gave us the one thing we needed most
This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
Holding on tight.
In:
Breaking through.
Entering:
Deep breathing.
The concrete of the garage floor was cold, but it was the only place I could be alone. The only place I could be scared. The only place I could cry.
Thirty minutes earlier, my whole life had changed.
My mom had been having back spasms and went to the doctor. He ordered a CT scan. After her appointment, she walked into my house and told me the doctor had now ordered a PET scan.
I knew it was bad. I stayed strong for my mom and for my boys. Until my mom left. Then I made the mistake of telling my husband. Ever comforting, he told me to take a Tylenol PM and start dinner.
I didn’t want my boys to see me panic, so I told them I was going to the garage to get some juice from the extra fridge. I leaned against it, slid down, and collapsed on the floor, my chest caving in.
I knew it wasn’t good. My mom had pancreatic cancer.
The next few months were a blur of doctor appointments, hospitals, surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation. I was also taking care of my boys and everything they needed. My babies are on the autism spectrum. They thrive with structure and routine. I was teaching full time. I tried to juggle everything.
On a cold February afternoon, my mom was receiving hospice care in my guest room. My boys were playing downstairs, and I was frying chicken cutlets. There was a hard knock on my front door.
Who could it be?
I shut off the burner and rushed to the door. I didn’t want to disturb my mom’s rest. It was my neighbor, Gary. He had something behind his back. I said hello and invited him in. He asked if I knew where my husband was.
I didn’t.
My husband was an alcoholic, and I couldn’t have that around my children. I had pleaded with him to get help and be present with our family, but nothing had changed. I had my mom and my boys to take care of. I told myself I would deal with the relationship soon.
I didn’t realize soon meant that very moment. Gary was holding my husband’s flannel shirt and his marine T-shirt, all found in Gary’s bedroom the night before.
His wife, Megan, was my friend, my grade-level partner, a bridesmaid in my wedding. What the actual hell was happening?
Three weeks later, I was in a hospice facility, holding my mom’s hand and singing the theme song to The Golden Girls. I wanted to thank her for being my best friend. I held her hand tightly. I wanted to remember her fingers, her eyes, everything.
When you are in hospice, they don’t always say your name at the end. They say a room number. My sister insisted they use my mom’s name.
“She is way more than a number,” I said.
Then that time came. Labored breathing. The sound is the reason I don’t drink coffee anymore. It reminds me of a coffee machine. Even writing about it takes me back there.
A month after my mom’s funeral, I found myself in marital court. I had to read a forensic report because my ex had made everything an absolute nightmare. I had the report on a bench, and as I read it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Megan had spoken poorly about me, as had others I thought were my friends.
A young attorney approached me and suggested I read the report in an office away from the courtroom.
I put my wrists together and said, “Cuff me, pal. I just held my mom’s hand as she took her last breath. You don’t scare me.”
I remember lying with my mom and telling her about Gary’s visit. She said, “Don’t worry about Megan. She doesn’t have a mother. You have a mother, and I will always be with you.”
My mom was right, like always. She taught me so much: to do the right thing, to put my family first, and to always carve out a little time for myself.
Life was completely different now. I was grieving my mom, living two houses away from my husband’s affair, and teaching across the hall from the woman who helped destroy my marriage. Every morning, I walked into work. Every afternoon, I drove home. There was no escape.
I also wanted to slowly acclimate my boys to the idea of moving. Their dad didn’t like the idea. He asked them, “How will I watch you?”
I was living in a fishbowl.
That summer, we moved. For the first time in months, I slept through the night. There were no whispers outside my window. No reminders waiting two houses away.
Just quiet. It wasn’t that my grief had disappeared. It hadn’t. My mom was still gone, and I was still raising two little boys while rebuilding a life I never expected to lose.
But that house gave us something we hadn’t had in a very long time: peace.
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