For years, that photograph had been one of my favorites.
Now I didn’t even know where it was.
Somewhere in a moving box, perhaps.
Or thrown away.
I’d stopped asking Brian what he’d done with our belongings.
The divorce had taken nearly eight months to resolve.
We’d argued over savings, retirement accounts, vehicles, and furniture.
But the house had been the most painful dispute.
Brian wanted it sold.
I wanted to keep it.
Not because it was a mansion.
It wasn’t.
But I’d planted the hydrangeas near the front porch.
I’d chosen the red door.
And I’d spent years imagining that we’d grow old there.
It was also the place where I’d grieved after two miscarriages.
I’d sat on the floor of our pale-green guest bedroom, crying over the family I’d hoped to have.
Eventually, I’d found the strength to get up again.
