For You

I moved to the country about three years ago. I was working through post-natal anxiety and maybe mistakenly thought that the fresh air would rattle my brain back to whatever normal is. (Normal is relative and over-rated) We first moved in with my family. My father wanted to be like The Waltons. But The Waltons is TV. Old TV.  (And I love my Dad, but I’ve learned that I also love reliable internet connections and family time that doesn’t involve being dragged backwards down hills in my chair.) We were four generations in one house, hoping to build a bigger house. My husband and I shared a room with our daughter and this worked. Until all three of us got the same flu, and two of us ended up fighting like we’d never fought before (or since, I’m thinking.) Two weeks later, we started looking for a place of our own, and a month later we signed the papers. We panic-bought a house. This house. As soon as I came into this place, I felt like it was ours. I imagined my kid playing in her room, and sharing it at some point. I would share the home office with …