It began in earnest when the children moved away from home. Suddenly, the chaos that had once defined my days — my constant reminders to clean their rooms, pick up their plates from the dining room table and, for goodness’ sake, stop leaving their shoes tossed in the middle of the living room — was replaced by silence.
I should have embraced it. After all, I’d dreamed of uninterrupted quiet for years. But instead of soaking in it, I found myself unnerved. I’d fluff a pillow on the couch, only to see it stay perfectly in place all week. There were no crumbs scattered on the counter, no rogue sock buried between cushions — no mayhem to manage. Everything was pristine, but utterly lifeless.
Friends raising younger children envied me. I’d hear their exasperated sighs over the phone as I described my newfound order while they hollered at their tween to find their missing hoodie. Parents a few years ahead of me gushed about the perks of this phase: “Oh honey, it gets so much easier now. Just wait.” But I wasn’t so sure. My days stretched out, too long and too quiet, leaving me uncertain of what to do next.
Without the clutter of family life to distract me, I fixated on the flaws in my home: a crack in the wall above the curtain rod in the living room, a chip in the yellow paint near the baseboards in the dining room — the kitchen cabinets worn from decades of use. For years, these details had blended in the background, overshadowed by dinner parties, homework sessions at the kitchen table and everyday life. Now, they seemed like glaring, almost challenging messages, as if the house itself was asking, “What happens next?”
When my children came home for holidays, the energy shifted. The house, with all its imperfections, felt whole again — not because it was full, but because it had purpose. I slipped easily back into Mom mode, cooking their favorite meals, playing board games and catching up on long-overdue conversations. The mess returned, and the animosity I’d experienced toward the house disappeared.
It took me time to understand what I had been feeling. This house — the place that had held us, nurtured us and even weathered our disasters, was never defined by its flaws or its tidiness, but rather by the life within its walls, the stories it sheltered and the memories etched into every corner.
My son is back home now — a recent college graduate navigating his next chapter. He no longer leaves shoes in the living room or dirty plates in the sink. Instead, without being asked, he helps me tidy up — an unspoken gesture of gratitude for the space that shaped him. The cracks and scratches in the house bear witness, markers of the beautiful family life lived within.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com