I never intended to become a stalker, especially with my kids in the van. But I suppose that’s how it looked. I just couldn’t resist. My girls didn’t help matters either.

“Mom, can we please drive by the blue house?”

Poor kids, I thought. They missed the place as much as I did. I hit the brakes and made a sharp left turn. Hopefully the new owners wouldn’t be outside today.  

My youngest pressed her nose against the window. “What did they do to our yard?”

“Some kind of landscaping, I guess.” I shook my head and continued gawking. 

My oldest daughter shot up in her seat. “Look! The curtains are open in my room.”

An uneasy feeling swept over me. Why did I feel guilty? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Yet I wondered what the owners might think if they recognized me. I scrunched down in my seat. 

“Is that a computer?” My daughter’s shriek interrupted my thoughts. “They’ve turned my bedroom into an office!” 

It all seemed so strange. Even weeks after our move, I still felt like we belonged there – as if we had every right to be there. After all, we’d made more memories in that house than those strangers had. My mind drifted back a few months when we first decided to move. At the time, I was so caught up in the excitement of building a new home, I didn’t think much about moving. My mind was consumed with countertops and cabinets, paint colors and carpets, light fixtures and fabrics. Then reality hit. It was time to start packing. Every room triggered memories.

In the master bathroom, I remembered the silly grin on my husband’s face as we watched that undeniable plus sign appear on our first pregnancy test. In the living room, I remembered the exact spot where each of my babies took their first wobbly steps.

There were birthday parties on the deck. Softball games in the backyard. Family meals around the kitchen table. And it wasn’t just the good times. I remembered trials and tears as well. Everywhere I looked, memories surrounded me. 

Within a few weeks it was moving day. After every box and piece of furniture had been carried to the trucks, we took one final walk through the empty house.

“Check all the drawers and look in the closets,” my husband instructed. “We don’t want to leave anything.”

But it already felt like I was leaving something. Part of me.   

When we moved into the new house I couldn’t wait to get settled. We arranged the furniture, hung pictures and displayed my favorite knick-knacks. Finally, everything was in its place. The house looked beautiful, but it didn’t feel like home.

To me, home was a place that felt comfortable and familiar. At the blue house, I could get up in the night, give a kid a teaspoon of cough syrup and crawl back into bed without turning on a light. In the new house, I felt lost. While looking for silverware, I found the potholders. When I needed more light, I switched on the garbage disposal. I loved the new house, but it felt so different.  

Even the holidays seemed different. We gathered for Thanksgiving dinner in a different dining room. We mailed Christmas cards and letters from our new address.

Yet, as each holiday passed, I realized something. Though the house was different, the precious faces around me had remained the same. Being with my family made it feel more like home. It wasn’t about the house. It was about the people.  

Little by little, our lives settled down into a new, comfortable routine. We made new memories and started new traditions. Then one day, while driving through the old neighborhood, I glanced back at the girls in the backseat.  

“Hey guys, do you want to cruise by the house?” 

The two older girls exchanged blank looks. Finally, my youngest spoke. 

“Nah, that’s okay.” She shrugged her shoulder. “I’d rather just go home.”

As I drove past the turn off, I smiled. Coincidentally, I didn’t care to see the blue house either. At last, I thought, we were finally going home.