Right before Christmas, I moved into the first apartment of my own, at 37 years old. After limping spectacularly out of my marriage, which is another story altogether, one of the few pieces of the future I found truly exciting was the piece in which I would finally have my very own place. I had lived with roommates, a boyfriend, roommates again, and then finally the boyfriend who became my husband. But although the compromises of living with other people always drove me to fits, I never had the budget or the confidence to live on my own. It seemed like a faraway dream.

Having a husband, for a time, muted the dream altogether: before I got my first apartment, I had jointly owned two homes. I was married for eight strange years. As a couple, we did all of the things that we set out to do, except, of course, for succeeding in our marriage. When we moved into our last house, we were sure we would stay there forever. As it turns out, forever was six years.

From my earliest days, having a family home has been a comfort to me. As I child, we lived in only one house. My parents still live in the same historic four-story brownstone row house to which I returned from the hospital in my swaddling blanket. I set out to do the same as my parents had. And I did; we did. Our house was a wonderful place in which to do the things we had set out to do, until the moment it all broke down and it was clear we were over. Our house belonged to neither of us more than the other. Certainly we felt differently about the end of our time there, but we agreed the house was haunted by our failure as a couple. We made plans to sell the place and we let it go. My grief at leaving that house eclipsed my grief at leaving my marriage. I had fallen out of love with my husband, but not with my home.

My broken heart found itself mended by half of a mid-century duplex. A little rough around the edges (and hence affordable) but perfect in every way I needed it to be: a place of my own was born. I found my future the way anyone finds things in the modern world-idly searching online while I was supposed to be working. I went to see the apartment one morning in a blinding rainstorm without an umbrella. The Realtor got lost on the way and had to circle back. I fell in love. I asked for no second opinion. Now all that was left was to put in the application, cross all fingers and hope my semi-apocalyptic post-divorce credit would pass muster. Once accepted into the rarefied world of paying each month to lease my very own dream, I breathed deeply and wrote all of the deposit cheques.

Over the last several months, I've furnished the place, bought an owl-shaped cookie jar, and hung a hodge-podge of art on the walls. I bought dishes and silverware. I hired a man to mow my lawn. I signed up for cable. I bought a vintage dresser. I found places for things I hadn't remembered owning. And in the end, I stacked my shoeboxes in the jam-packed closet I share with no one and I thought, "My shit is officially together." I pay the rent each month on time, by myself. It's anxious bliss, but it's bliss. To the endless dust, tricky front door lock and delicate plumbing I say: You're awesome. Thanks for being mine for a lease term of at least one year. You're a rock.

Other pieces from this series:
The perks of waking up alone.  
I began to dread the sound of my flatmate's key in the front door.
When I moved to London, I lost my only skill: mastery of the language.