We passed rows of rundown stores and shops as we drove down the well-worn highway. We made our way into a neighborhood, ripe with older, unmatched homes. They were a far cry from the cookie-cutter homes with identical manicured lawns that I’d often seen in the more bustling parts of town. Still, I loved how each house had its own charm.
We finally turned onto a steep, short driveway and parked the car. With excitement, I opened my door to a cute ranch style home that sat on a hill opposite one of the many culs-de-sac along the street. Inside, the large window in the kitchen gave an open view of every home down that way and proved to be the perfect sitting spot for the cats we would eventually adopt and the perfect backdrop for meals at our dinner table.
My husband bought that home just months before we got married. I imagined eating dinner while watching the sky glow in muted gold and orange as the sun tucked into its heavenly hiding place. I imagined jogging and drifting away with music blaring, motivating me to take the next step. I even imagined playing and going on walks with future children.
But soon after he closed on that house, a burglary changed all that for me. It made me uncomfortable. And fear of the future sent me into an anxiety-ridden frenzy that affected the way I lived. I was a mess. Though you probably wouldn’t have known it if you weren’t my husband. I once wrote about that time and how it taught me so much about goodness in the face of tragedy. But now, years later, I realized there was another lesson in all of it.