Home

It took 6 months, but we decided to move out of the house where we lost our daughter. I think I was the one having trouble deciding. There was so much love, hope, and expectation in that house. It was a pre-foreclosure when we bought it, and we put a ton of work into it to make it livable. We'd sit around and talk about raising our children there, playing in the huge backyard, and we worked hard to make it ours.

After my daughter died, it was really hard to be in that house, to remember the day she died, the events that took place at the house that day and in the days that followed. I work full-time from home, so I wasn't away from it much. There was this dark, horrible feeling in those first days, and a slightly less dark but still sinister feeling in the house after that.

Once we moved, I felt lighter. Things looked and felt lighter. I was able to think more clearly. And I loved our new house, but I felt guilty every time I thought that, as though I'd exchanged my daughter's life for this house. In truth, I'd rather live on the street with both girls than live here without my firstborn.

Last week, I kept thinking, "I want to go home, I want to go home." I've thought and said it before, and my husband and friends always tell me this is home, that my girl isn't at that other house and there's nothing there for me. I guess I feel like I left my hopes and dreams behind. I wanted to come here, to start over and create a safe place with new hopes for my baby girl.

Now, I accept. I accept that this is our house and that my baby will most likely spend the bulk (if not all) of her childhood here. I should love this house--it has so many of the features I always wanted--but it will always miss the one thing I can never find anywhere. So it's our house. I'll have to wait and see if one day it feels like home.