I wasn’t ready. But I did it anyway.

I moved house this week.

Not “moved house” the way people casually say it at dinner parties, holding a glass of wine, talking about square footage and updated appliances. I mean I stood in an empty room that used to have Darren’s chair in it and wished/prayed/screamed/cried that it could be different. Different so I didn’t have to move. Different so that I could stay there forever.

I knew it was the thing I had to do. Staying wasn’t sustainable — not financially, not physically, not in any practical sense a sensible person could argue with. I am a sensible person. Ask anyone. I made lists. I had reasons, numbered.

My heart did not receive the memo.

My heart wanted to stay in that kitchen forever, wanted to keep hearing him move around even though he hasn’t moved around in years, wanted to leave everything exactly as it was in case leaving it meant admitting something my heart wasn’t ready to admit. My heart, it turns out, does not care about what’s practical. My heart has never once cared about that.

But — and this is the bit I keep having to remind myself — the house didn’t hold him. I did. I still do. He came with me. He always was going to. That didn’t make it easier.

So far I’ve cried for ten days straight. But it’s slowly getting better. I kept busy. Busy enough that somewhere in the last day or two I noticed I’d gone a whole hour without a sniffle.

Then a car went past with the number plate ending in DAZ. Followed by three others with his initials. I know exactly what it is. He’s telling me he’s holding me tight and he approves of our new home.

Well, of course he does. He had a hand in finding it.