Memoir Part 2. The ancestral imprint of marrying (and staying with) ne’er-do-well husbands

‘Hi Maria, hi Seth,’ Judy, the picture perfect Seattle property manager, all polar fleece, sensible shoes, and Nordic facial features arranged in a just friendly enough smile, greeted us as we walked up to our new front door.

‘Hi, nice to see you again,’ I said, my mind already flooded with all that had to be done. Figure out Seth’s school, prepare for my new job, find a doctor to treat this UTI, get groceries and toilet paper. We walked in to what would be the first unit we lived in at the small complex, moving 2 years later when my daughter’s future fiancé would move in with us and we would switch to a unit with 2 primary bedrooms. There was a small room off of the entry level, which was more like a closet, but would be Jonny’s room, the first of what I call ‘Harry Potter rooms’ that my middle child would inhabit, fitting into any space because he seemed to have magical powers within his strong mind. The main floor included the living space and one bedroom, and the 3rd floor had the primary bedroom and one other.

We thanked Judy and began to unload the car and unpack. Seth claimed the wall along the living/dining room for his airport, which he quickly began arranging. He was a stickler for accuracy, and appeared to scale down a real terminal to his model scale, judging the distance as he moved the ancillary vehicles around the jetway. I looked around at the cherrywood cabinets, hardwood floors, and shiny black granite countertops and saw a fresh start.