The House of Undoing

The six hundred square feet that have undone everything I once knew

He left almost everything behind when he moved out. He took what he came with — his clothes, his desk, his California King. But all the things we had accumulated as we built our life together for the previous five years, he left.

A 3-bedroom house and “forever future” worth of items. The couch. The chair. The dining room set. The items for the someday-baby’s room. The clocks, the vases, the throw pillows.

I suppose it was the only reasonable choice. He wanted to make a totally fresh start with his new, young lover. Why would he bring anything that had been purchased for the life he had planned to build with a different woman?

Further, all the items he had left had been purchased by me or my parents. It wouldn’t really have been fair for him to take them.

But I found myself quite overwhelmed in his absence. What on earth was I, one person, going to do with all that stuff?

In truth, I didn’t want to get rid of most of it. I wasn’t the one who had opted out of our life together. I wasn’t the one who had decided she wasn’t in love anymore. I wasn’t the one who changed their mind about having a child.

Every item surrounding me had meaning. It had been lovingly collected for the purpose of making our life together more beautiful, more comfortable.

It pained me to take two car loads to the thrift store when I had to move into a tiny duplex. That “stuff” was our life.

I was determined to keep as much as possible, though. I was on a mission, goddammit. Okay, so someone had opted out. No worries. I knew I wasn’t pretty or sexy or traditionally desirable — but I also knew what a good person I am. That I’m a good partner. That I love deeply. That there are plenty of people out there who want a family.

I was fairly certain that in just a few years, I’d find myself in another relationship, building that family I so deeply wanted.

Wouldn’t it be so much more convenient when I showed up with a houseful of furniture and accessories?

I was the ultimate bride-to-order. Not only a good person with a good heart who wanted a partner to love and build a family with, but one who came with everything we’d need to fill up a cozy, beautiful home.

When I achieved my dream of buying a house on my own a few years later, I faced an unexpected challenge: my house was only 600 square feet.

That was something I had not planned.

My duplex was nearly twice the size and filled with the items from my old life from wall to wall. (Not to mention the entire garage.)

As I packed everything up, I realized there was no way I would be able to bring it all with me.

I made more painful trips to the thrift store. But only a few. Only the bare minimum that would clear enough space so I could fit into my new house.

And then for the next three years, I lived with the majority of my belongings piled into perilous towers in the garage. Because one day, I was going to move into a “real” house with a real partner and I wanted to be ready.

When you live in a 600 square foot house, things become very clear very quickly. There literally isn’t room to fuss around.

I tried. I really did. But a year in, I had to start toting things to the thrift store again.

Three years in, I turned 44 and realized my dream of getting married and having a family were no longer realistic. Not the way I had imagined.

I also realized perhaps the most important thing there is to realize: that dreams are just dreams. We can do our best to achieve them, and they might never come to fruition.

Suddenly, the pile of boxes in my garage containing all the toys and clothing from my childhood, the things I wanted to pass on to my daughter someday, started to feel suffocating. I’d carried that stuff around for more than two decades. Was I honestly going to keep it indefinitely? For a baby I likely would not end up having?

And let’s be realistic: Would she have really wanted my old dolls from the 80s?

When is it time to let go?

That was the moment, I believe. That was the time to let go. So I went through those boxes and found new homes for everything.

It felt like another undoing of my dream. It hurt. It was hard.

And it was exhilarating. I felt a hundred pounds lighter.

Over the course of the next few years, I ripped out most of my lawn. Lawns are for families with kids and dogs. I’m a single woman who lives in the desert. I don’t need a lawn. This region needs people to use less water.

So I pick-axed and rolled, pick-axed and rolled, undoing everything the landscapers had done just before I moved in.

I took more items to the thrift store. Old clothes I used to wear when I was in my last relationship. More furniture that he had liked more than I had. Those god-awful dishes that I hated so much. And all the books and blankets I had bought for our future baby.

Every day was a new day to let go.

I got rid of my mattress last fall. I won’t tell you how old it was or how many partners I’ve shared it with, but I will say…it was time.

I had saved up for years for a new bed and bed frame. But I cried while putting it together. My hope had been that I’d replace my Full mattress with a Queen or King to make room for a future partner. But a mattress of that size won’t fit in my house.

Sometimes, fear has gotten the better of me. Fear that my solo-sized life will only ever be solo.

But this is all I can afford. And isn’t that okay?

Further, as I mentioned, I’d had partners in my Full bed before — even one who was 6’8”. I doubt a small bed ever limited anyone’s ability to build a relationship. On the contrary, wouldn’t the tight space be an advantage?

But the tears didn’t stop. The bed frame smelled bad and I went through hell trying to return it. The first new mattress was so firm, I couldn’t sleep on it. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. Yes, and the fifth.

I undid my bed and it is still “undoing,” coaxing out some of the most painful, traumatic memories of my life. My bed has never been a place where I have experienced safety and love with another person. It must be undone.

All of it must go.

There’s only one set of curtains left in this house that I brought from the house I lived in with him. Interestingly, they are the curtains I made for our bedroom. Dark brown with tiny blue flowers on them. He agreed to the flowers because the curtains were dark, as he liked, and no one could tell there were flowers unless you got up close.

I was so proud of finding that fabric — something that would make us both happy. Funny how all these years later, it seems so telling that I often had to hide anything femme by disguising it with hyper-masculinity. Just make sure no one notices the flowers.

Those curtains haunt me. I see them every day in my living room. But it took me a long time to make curtains for the other rooms in the house and somehow I just didn’t get around to swapping out those curtains from our old bedroom.

Finally, I have the panels sewn. All I have to do is add the loops. Eventually, I’ll get to them. It’s on my list. I don’t know why I’ve been having such a hard time getting around to it.

And the dining room set. Oh, that dining room set. I really liked that dining room set. Not loved, per se. But definitely really, really liked. It’s the perfect size. The perfect color. A simple design. Something I imagined sitting at with a new partner and our family.

It’s been in my garage for six years now because it is too big to fit into my house. It takes up so much space, but my god, the thought of selling it makes my heart ache. That was our dining room table. We ate dinners there. I made beautiful place settings there on the holidays. I wiped it down every night. I wrote there when I got sick of working in my office/our future baby’s room.

How long am I going to hold on to that dining set?

A wise commenter on TikTok said: “Your dining set is Miss Havisham’s wedding dress.” And I felt that like a very well-intentioned gut punch. What a wake-up call.

I’m doing another sweep as I come upon the six year anniversary of living here. I keep finding items from the home we built — things I don’t need anymore, things that remind me of a life I no longer live, a life I no longer want.

It’s time for it all to go.

And maybe the dining set, too.

It’s strange to me that such a tiny space could cause such a giant mess. A raucous undoing. A tangled unspooling. A near-total demolition.

And even in the mess, I keep finding more of what needs to be undone. It feels like a never-ending process. Was it the seven years of my life and a love I still feel so deeply for someone who didn’t want it, so big and deep that it’s taking this long to unwind?

Or is it the dream, itself? The life I thought I would lead? A vision I’ve had since I was a little girl? Perhaps that’s why the undoing is so enormous.

Every undoing is so hard. It feels so big. So strenuous.

And when it’s over, I feel elated. Strong. Like new again.

This is, as it turns out, the house of my undoing. And thank god for that.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you want to support my writing, consider using my affiliate link to purchase a Medium membership, or tip me over at Ko-fi.

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