June 29, 2025.

The day I knew

My brother-in-law and his wife moved to a small town in New York nearly forty years ago. I was dating Donnie at the time and I recall visiting while they were in the throes of home renovations.

We have had many events at their house over the years — birthday parties, 4th of July celebrations, game nights, Easters, Thanksgivings. Many years of memories with a family that keeps growing.

Fast forward time as it does, and my SIL loses her husband. Less than three months later I lose mine. Brothers. Integral members of the family, gone.

I knew I would have to decide what to do with the rest of my life, but I needed to sit in my grief first. I didn’t have the mental or physical capacity to make that large of a decision. Not with any clarity.

I did wonder from time to time if I would stay in the home that was comfortable, safe. Or would I move closer to my daughter? Or perhaps this was the time to make my dream of living near the ocean a reality.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions.

When I finally felt ready to start making decisions about my future, the first one was to sell my home. It was too big and burdensome. And as comfortable as I was, there were too many memories. It didn’t feel right to continue to live there without my husband. I decided it would go on the market when the time was right.

I crossed “staying in my home” off the list.

In the meantime, I researched neighborhoods. I visited the little town by the ocean I always loved going to as a child. A town that was very close to where I was born. I wondered at the irony of living out the latter part of my life where it began.

Although this seaside town will always hold a special place in my heart, it did not seem right for me to settle in. I realized it was a great place to visit, but not to live. Not for me, anyway.

I crossed “living by the ocean” off the list.

I looked at neighborhoods near my daughter and her husband. Although I would be close to them, it wasn’t home. I would be away from my main source of comfort: my friends. Besides, the kids have full-time jobs, they have a busy social life. The last thing I wanted was for them to worry about me. And I knew they would.

I crossed “living close to my daughter” off the list.

Where did that leave me? Downsizing by relocating to a condo or townhouse? Except I did not want to share walls with anyone. There is nothing wrong with that. Living in a townhouse has many perks, especially for a single woman. But it’s just not where I wanted to be.

And then it happened. I stayed over my SIL’s house one night last summer to help her with her grandchildren. As I was having coffee on her deck the next morning, I was enchanted by the birds flitting in and out of their houses scattered around the yard. The joyful sound of children playing. The low hum of motor boats on the lake, people laughing. I felt at peace for the first time in a very long time.

“This is it. This is where I want to be,” I said to myself. When I shared this thought with my SIL, she pointed across the street and said, “that house is for sale.” She proceeded to contact the owner because she knew them — because everyone knows everyone here — and got the code for the door.

“1986” — the year I met my husband.

My little shack

I got chills and started to cry. Dramatic, I know. But if you know me, you know I look for all the signs. And this one was big as far as I was concerned.

When we walked over and let ourselves in, I saw it was in bad shape. Termites were climbing the walls, ceiling paint falling down in sheets. There was so much wrong with that house. It would be a huge undertaking for me. But I didn’t care. I immediately started to have vision. I could knock it down, start over. Make it mine. Just mine. A little cottage to live in for the rest of my life.

It was rough going in the beginning. I didn’t have liquid cash to purchase it and taking out a bridge loan was risky. I could hear Don’s voice in my head saying, “don’t do it.” He was always so practical, so I listened to that voice. Besides, I hadn’t even put my house on the market yet. My dog still had life in him. I had so much unfinished business to still deal with. I decided the time wasn’t right.

So, I passed on it. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. I moved on from the idea.

A couple months later as I was perusing Zillow, I checked in on the little cottage. I was curious … would it still be on the market? It was. After another few thoughtful days, I decided maybe I would take a chance after all. Do the opposite of what Don would do. I knew he would want me to be happy.

After receiving my financial advisor’s blessing, I decided to go for the loan. After all, this was the rest of my life I was talking about.

The process was painful. The bank went for blood. They wanted everything except my first born. I wasn’t sure why. I have impeccable credit and plenty of collateral. I was low risk as far as I was concerned. But what do I know about the banking business?

I was worried the owners would get impatient and back out. They didn’t. They knew my story. They wanted this for me, maybe almost as much as I did (backstory: they bought this property to rebuild for themselves but decided against it).

Finally, after a substantial amount of time — longer than I was told it would take — I was approved. I closed on the property on November 11, 2025. Over eight months from inception. Over eight months from that fateful morning.

I now sit in my SIL’s home and look at my little shack across the way. It’s ugly, covered in snow, and lonely. But it’s mine. Plans have been drawn up and will be submitted this coming week for approval. The breaking of ground will most likely not take place until early this summer.

But that’s ok. I have a plan. My Connecticut house has been sold. I paid off my bridge loan. My plate has gotten lighter. But I cannot wait for it to be full again. This time it is for a different reason.

This time it is for peace. And I’m all in.