From Nothing They Came

From nothing we came, and to nothing we will return. What a depressing thought. 

I walked from room to room. It was time to say goodbye—to my house, my dreams, and to myself. Every step hurt worse than the one before, but I kept going. 

I remember when we moved into town, my husband and I. He, a new banker, and myself, an eager homemaker. The rundown colonial home we purchased had beckoned me. Everything about it seemed big, important, and impressive—adjectives not used for ranch kids. With a little polish, it could be the most beautiful house in town. Imagine little ol’ us as the proud owners. It was perfect. 

Nobody had expected us to amount to much, but we were the ones who broke the mold. It was part of what had attracted us to each other. We were different in the same ways. Together we would do what nobody thought we could. We would create a life to be proud of. 

Unfortunately, perfection didn’t last long. Time proved that it was too much. Too much work, too much upkeep, too much expense, and too much stress. My husband made good money at the bank, but he hated it. I worried it was killing him. Then hard times hit, and friends and neighbors defaulted on loans. They begged for help he could not give. His job required him to enforce consequences that hurt his country boy soul. This life was not for him. He knew it and so did I. What started out as our dream had become only mine.

I felt betrayed. I tried not to blame him, but I was tired of living our dream alone. Without him, it felt empty. Looking back now, everything did. 

As I entered the nursery, I stroked my growing belly. Sunlight streamed into the room that I had decorated for our future child. I pictured him or her growing up in this room, squeals and laughter bouncing off the soft yellow walls. The beautiful furniture will have to stay—for them. The woman and child who will live my dream. Bitterness and jealousy danced with the sadness in my heart as I wondered for the thousandth time why I can’t have it all. 

I thought about the woman who will live my life, sleep in my bed and rock her baby in my rocking chair. She is nice. It would be so easy to despise her, but I only feel sorrow. It isn’t her fault, but my loss is her gain, and I can feel my spirit deflate like a leaking balloon.

Given my heartbreak, it may come as a surprise to hear that it was me that suggested leaving. How could one idea be both torture and salvation? Without this house, we would once again be nothing. It had become the status symbol of two backwoods kids pretending to be something we weren’t—important. I had put my soul into turning this house into the precious jewel that I never had been. From the time I was a girl, I had dreamed of rising above rural poverty and leading a successful life in town. It wasn’t until we “arrived” that I realized we must have gotten lost, because the destination held no real peace.

I needed to find my husband.

I located him at the bottom of the stairs. He was smiling. His blue eyes held hope and love. I felt a tug on my heart. Why was it so easy for him to let go, and why couldn’t I? How is it that the right decision isn’t always the easy one? 

I wanted him to hug me and remind me that what we were headed toward was better than what we were leaving behind. I craved a place of peace and tranquility where we could raise our child to know who they are. Even though I was still figuring it out for myself. 

My husband grabbed my hand, and together we walked out. Shutting the door behind us. 

With the money we received from the sale of our things, we bought a small ranch, similar to the ones we both grew up on. Life had led us full circle. A simple life for simple people. Roots for the uprooted. The chance to be people we were not exhausted to be. 

The windy road that led to our future was dusty. I had forgotten about the dust. When the small home came into view, my daddy’s voice played in my head. “Folks will always belong in the class they are born into, no matter how much money they have.”  

I thought I could prove him wrong, but we had just done the opposite. Our life in town was like shoes that never quite fit, pinching and squeezing until we had to kick it off. So there we were, back to a modest ranch house, cattle, and crops. At the mercy of the wind and rain, or the lack thereof. Back to wearing boots that fit. 

The pain was raw, but when I looked into my husband’s eyes, I could see his dreams again. He was home. Truth be told, I was too. I just needed to allow myself to admit it. 

I had worked so hard to create an identity that wasn’t my own that I wondered what I was worth without it. I used the trappings of my town life as tangible proof I was enough. When people looked at us now, they would only see poor country folk. 

Taking a deep breath, I puzzled over why I had ever cared. It seemed almost silly.

My daddy always said we were the rich ones. Even as a child, I knew he wasn’t talking about money. I didn’t see it then, but I think I do now. 

I closed my eyes, and let my imagination flow. Window boxes appeared on the sills, flowers dotted the landscape, cattle grazed on green hills, and our garden overflowed with bounty. Inside, I envisioned a cozy fire with our baby sleeping in a homemade wooden cradle, supper bubbling on the stove. 

It was enough. It always had been.

I took a deep breath, and I let myself be me.