I’ve Seen You Blossom, Reclaiming the Forgotten You

Recovery after trauma

We’ve lived here almost four years, and in that time, I have seen small pieces of your life.

I don’t know you, but recently, I have watched you blossom.

The first year we moved in, you caught my attention because you left your windows open a lot of the time, and you had two little ones.

My youngest and I spent a lot of time outside. The front porch swing was her favorite place, and your house is directly across the street.

Your babies were so little and sweet, and we couldn’t help but notice them.

Kids have always held power over my heart.

They’re so special and innocent.

They help us see the world in a better light, reminding us of what’s most important when we get lost in the weight of adulthood.

And you loved yours. I could see it in everything I watched you do with them.

The way you cradled the baby as you walked to the mailbox to see what had been delivered that day.

The way your laugh lifted into the air as your daughter ran around your legs.

During the day, I saw you and your kids fairly regularly, and your little one always called out and waved.

I could often hear your voices lifted in song, drifting from your open windows — your daughter’s tiny voice blending with yours in a symphony of motherhood — a glimpse at your heart.

It was beautiful.

You’re in a stage of your life that I’ve put in my rearview mirror, and one that I miss a lot of the time.

Your little ones need you. You’re their whole world right now.

There’s a beauty in that. Challenges too, but the beauty is breathtaking.

Your connection with them soothed me, lifted my spirits.

But I watched the shift in you, all of you, when he came home at night.

Those first few months we lived here, he was gone every day, at work I assumed.

And the giggles were quiet in the evenings when he was there.

I didn’t see you outside, but I could hear the voices raised through the still-open windows of your house.

The anger. Shouting — the voice raised was almost always his.

And I could hear your babies cry.

And my heart ached for you.

It was none of my business.

We knew each other only enough to wave and say a quick greeting when we crossed on the road during our walks.

I saw nothing that warranted making your business mine, but my heart ached for you.

I recognized the signs.

It seemed obvious he was addicted to something. Whether drugs or alcohol, it was something that changed him, and not for the better.

Perhaps you knew a different man and that’s why you were with him in the first place. But the man I saw was nothing I would want around my children.

It was none of my business, because I never saw him do anything that I could report. There was no clear abuse.

But I watched you, and I worried.

I could hear you crying sometimes. And I watched the way you shied away from him on the rare occasions I saw you outside together.

He cleaned his car incessantly. I don’t know if it was his coping mechanism. Maybe he was trying to be a better man, and it was a way to work out the aggression that seeped from his pores.

But he was out there a lot, for hours at times.

Until he wasn’t.

It’s the kind of thing I couldn’t help but notice when your house is in our direct line of view from our own.

Last year he disappeared.

I don’t know if something caught up with him. Maybe he’s serving time?

Maybe you found the strength to make him leave.

I know the house you guys live in belonged to your parents.

I know it’s yours free and clear because they gifted it to you when you started your own family.

Through the years, I’ve seen your parents come and go. They aren’t as withdrawn as you are. They’re more likely to stop and speak, share pieces of their lives. My own parents are the same way.

There was a scare a while back, just before your fella disappeared, and I was worried that something had happened to you.

Your windows stayed closed, and the kids were nowhere to be seen.

I worried and wondered if I was being ridiculous as I considered calling for a welfare check on a total stranger, based on nothing more than the bad feeling that rested in my gut.

If I’d had your parents’ phone number, I would have called them to ask if you were okay. I was worried enough that I wouldn’t have cared if that was weird.

Then, as I sat at my desk that faces my front window, and therefore your house, I saw your parents’ vehicle rush into the driveway and both of them jump out of the car.

They were banging on the door, and I could hear them calling out to you through my closed windows. I could hear the desperation and worry in their voices, and I watched your dad rush back and get their key to your house.

They disappeared inside, and I was so relieved to know you weren’t alone.

I never saw you that day, and I didn’t see you for a while after that.

I worried I had been right, that I should have called, even if it was none of my business.

I haven’t seen your man since.

But I eventually started seeing you again.

Nowadays, your mom comes and watches the kids sometimes, so you can go to work.

And your babies have grown so much.

I see you outside in the afternoons and evenings now, and I have watched you blossom.

I see the real you coming out more and more. The you who knows your worth.

Your daughter started school this year.

I’m almost always at my desk beside the window when the bus drops her off at the end of the day.

I hear that telltale sound of it stopping, and I watch her fly off the bus and into your arms, too excited to wait for her kiss some days, as she rushes to her little brother, who squeals in delight that she is home.

My heart fills as I watch the three of you head inside, your daughter’s Elsa backpack bouncing. Your son, now well into toddlerhood, usually races to get there first in a burst of the energy that all adults wish they could tap into.

And I see you, beaming your pride in them, with no one to dim your light.

I don’t know you, and I don’t know your story, but I see the love in your heart.

I see you, now in full bloom, and you’re beautiful.