Letter 8 – This House

 

Garrett,

This house, that I really wanted you to have. This house, where I thought we would have the chance to remake ourselves. This house, that you never moved into. I really wanted you to be here, where we could figure out what was going to happen, after. After you went to rehab. After you were better. But you didn’t go to rehab, and you never moved in.

You died in our old house. Your house. Your home. The only place you knew as yours since you were two years old. It was a good house. It was a wonderful house in which to raise a little boy. A little house for a little boy, with lots of other little boys nearby. It was a good house for you, and I loved it there. But, as we all grew, as our family grew and as you grew, it got hard to fit in. We were bursting at the seams. We could barely fit a full-sized bed in your room and then you were immediately saying you getting too big for that bed, and for that space. It was a squeeze. We were on top of each other all the time. I never minded, but I heard what you said, and I heard what Kevin said, and I saw that Genevieve was barely being able to have friend over. There wasn’t room to put down another mattress and still play with toys, now she was a young girl and not baby or a toddler.

And so, this new house. That we bought just a few months before you died. It needed work. As we were having it built back up, things were unraveling at home. I didn’t understand how fast things were going downhill. It was rocky, but nothing we hadn’t been through before. It was a harder this time. There was more pressure this time as I was coming to understand that things were bad. And that things were coming to a head. Meaning, something had to be done. It could not wait much longer.

We were waiting on a bed at the rehab for you. You were going to go on the coming Monday. Kevin and I had decided that there were no other paths for you. Rehab was going to be like a reset. Go to rehab, and then figure out things from there. First rehab, and then the next step. I didn’t know what the next step was and I didn’t care. Just that we would figure it out. First rehab. And then whatever came next. Only there was no rehab. And there was no next. And there was this stupid house hanging over our heads that you never moved into. A beautiful, beautiful monument to nothing. No boy to live in it. No child in there starting his life over. No life. And, a house.

When you died, I couldn’t make decisions anymore. Who cared? What did it matter that we had a house that you were never going to be in? What a hollow, hollow purchase it was. Kevin took over all the communications after you died. Thank you, Kevin, for doing that. Because I couldn’t. I hated this house. This house that I got just as I lost my son. It felt to me like a terrible swap. A really great house in trade for my child. I know it isn’t rational to put these two things together, but I did, and I sometimes still do.

The house didn’t do anything. But it was one more thing adding to your pressures. Knowing that we were moving, and that you weren’t invited to be there unless you went to rehab. I went back and forth on that. Was that really true, that you couldn’t come? I don’t know. I don’t know it was true for me, but I can’t say. I didn’t get to make a final decision about it, because when I was waffling around, you died. Yup. You died.

We put off moving for another month. We couldn’t get it together enough to figure out how to move. At our little house, our home, your door was always closed. And it was always there. The door to your room. And it will always be your room, no matter what. Our little house and your small room on the street where we lived where you played with all the other boys and we had many, many good times. Wonderful times. And I loved you so very much. Your heart was always out there for everyone to see. It will always be your house, and your street, and your room.

When we moved, I had more than a moment when I thought we’d made a terrible mistake. How could we move in here? How could we leave your house? Our home? I sat down with Genevieve and asked her what her thoughts were about this new house. Should we live here? Should we move back into our old house? And she said, I think we should give it a chance. Oh. Okay. For Genevieve, I would do that. I knew it was probably the best thing for her.  A new house where her brother’s door wasn’t always right there. She would never have moved into that room. It wouldn’t be hers when she got older. It was never going to happen. She’d be stuck in her tiny room that wasn’t right for anyone older than a toddler, with no place else for her to go. The new house was right for her. And so, I decided to give it a chance, even though I mourned this crappy, crappy tradeoff. This house. And no son.

Oddly, I don’t miss the old one. Once I committed to this one, and even though I still feel ambivalent towards it sometimes, I don’t miss our old home. Because it was your home. For your time. And now that that’s over, I’ve let that house go. I thank that house for giving us a home that was perfect for you and for us during the time that we lived there. I thank that house for being just right for us for a long time. We had many, many wonderful memories there. Thank you. You are Garrett’s house and always will be. Thank you for that.