A. Packing your shit up when you truly didn't think you'd be leaving this house - that is, until Baby was on the way. That ring would sparkle from your finger as you planned how to decorate your new home which Ex-Man was building for you - all on a plot of land large enough to encompass your rose garden, chicken coop, and Future goats. And all of those goddamned babies.
or, you know, into a shared apartment in a complex across town.
Nobody is bitter, least of all me.
(Jen Lancaster, y'all. she's HILARIOUS)
I am frustrated, because I decorated here. I painted, and steam-cleaned. I bought a mirror to match the living room, and pilllows to match the kettle on the woodstove. I framed pleasing photos of the two of us. I planted lilacs, hydrangeas, purple phlox around the mailbox. Now, holy hell, next year those bulbs I planted will bloom and he will probably run them over with the lawnmower. Or worse, he won't. I've lived here for 2 1/2 years, which is longer than I've lived ANYWHERE since I lived with my parents. Also, I have never been good at sucking things up. I will mourn the shit out of this relationship.

