Less than a week after I contacted the agent he returned with an incredible offer.
I didn’t pause. I had him bring the contract, signed it, and began packing my things.
Outside of my clothing, cosmetics, a few items, everything in the house was old, and shabby. We never bought anything for the house unless it was mandatory. The fridge was over twenty years old, so was the T.V. Most of the furniture came with the house.
As I’ve said before, the house was like a hotel room, it was never really home.
Beyond my clothing, the few things I wanted to keep I put in boxes. Then I went through my clothes, separating them into what I wanted and what I didn’t.
I loaded up the car, put the things I wanted in storage, the things I didn’t I gave away.
I told my children nothing.
They lived in their own cities, in their own houses, with their own children. We spoke on the phone, once or twice a week.
I suppose growing in a home with polite and somewhat circumspect parents, they never expected passion, excitement or that kind of connection.
I drove to my office, discussed my pension, my holiday pay and taking a year’s leave of absence.
It is rather disconcerting to think that they believed I was ‘grieving’ and so broke every rule to accommodate me.