THE MISSING MIDDLE

CORI HOWARD finds that it takes more than Marie Kondo and burning sage to transition to an empty nest.

- CORI HOWARD

WHEN I ARRIVED at my front door after moving my youngest child halfway across the world to a university in Paris, I expected a grand threshold moment. At the very least, I expected to walk in and fall to my knees bawling. It was a moment I’d imagined so many times over the years with dread. But it was nothing like I’d imagined.

On a warm September morning, I walked into a house that was clean, quiet, and dappled in sunlight—like a temple for my old life as a mother with all its energy, but none of the mess. Without unpacking, without the anticipated weight of self-pity or sadness, I burst into a frenzy of activity and got to work. I reorganized and reclaimed spaces. I Marie Kondo’d for hours, then, jet-lagged and bone-tired, I passed out.

When I awoke the next morning, it was peaceful and calm. That feeling lingered for days, and only occasionally would I drop into the well of sorrow. Usually, the grief came from a day without hearing from either of my children, or the sudden realization that after all the years of foreboding grief, my life had become stiflingly solitary. On those days, I would let myself cry. I had learned over the years to sit with sorrow and see what it had to teach me.