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When I came out to my ex-husband as gay, I anticipated a “downgrade” in my lifestyle. Getting divorced meant shifting from a two-income household to living on a single income. I knew I’d have to tighten my budget, from downsizing my home to trimming back on luxuries like professional hair color (instead of visiting the salon twice a year, I figured I’d go none). My shopping routine would also shift towards thrift stores and clearance racks.
While I accepted this change, what truly worried me was moving into a smaller, older home. I feared my kids wouldn’t want to spend time at my place. Would they prefer hanging out in their dad’s spacious, modern house with its pool and high-tech entertainment system? What could I offer them beyond warmth and cleanliness? Would they choose their dad’s appealing home over mine? After all, who wouldn’t opt for a DoubleTree over a Motel 6?
When I shared my concerns with my therapist, she dismissed my worries. “That’s not how it works,” she said. “Your kids will prefer being with you because they love you. The house doesn’t matter.” My mom and sister echoed her sentiment, and my friends reassured me too. Everyone insisted the house wouldn’t be an issue.
Yet, the fear lingered. I couldn’t shake the anxiety that came with the thought of my kids seeing our new, less glamorous home. I had spent so long convincing myself that happiness was tied to an enviable lifestyle. I thought that if I could present a beautiful home in a picturesque neighborhood, I could prove my happiness to myself and others. The irony that I was deeply unhappy in my old, beautiful house escaped me as I worried about my children’s reaction to our new, more modest abode.
I still vividly remember the first drive to our new home. The neighborhood clearly lacked the upscale charm they had grown accustomed to, and every perceived shortcoming felt magnified as I navigated the narrow streets. No gates, no sidewalks, mismatched fences, and utility lines overhead instead of buried underground. I feared they’d think, “Is this it?”
To my surprise, they didn’t. Immediately, they began pointing out the lovely aspects of the neighborhood—the majestic old oak trees, a house with a wild garden, a charming cottage-like home, and a couple of sweet elderly neighbors waving at us. A group of kids shooting hoops at the street corner only added to the charm. I wondered if my kids sensed my anxiety, but they had nothing negative to say.
The same held true for our actual house. Although it lacked the luster of my ex’s home, it was still lovely—nicer even than the home I grew up in. It was cozy, and that was what my kids noticed right away. They raced through the rooms, delighting in features I had planned to change, like the thick carpet they found “so soft” and the ancient appliances they dubbed “retro.” The spacious, treeless backyard became their playground for running and playing with the dog. They eagerly envisioned how to arrange their furniture and what colors to paint their walls.
Ultimately, they loved the house. But the main point remains: as sweet as their enthusiasm was, it wasn’t the house making them want to stay with me. My therapist was right; so were my family and friends. It’s me. Even in a tiny apartment, they would find joy.
My kids cherish being here because they love me and feel secure in that love. I strive to create special moments for them—taking walks, enjoying music, and watching movies together—but it’s my presence that draws them in.
I didn’t realize while grappling with my fears and trying to fit a mold of the perfect suburban straight woman that the essence of home isn’t in the house itself. It never was. I am their home, and we belong to each other. I understand that now.