Form JDF-97. That is what I researched and printed, ready to post on the door today. The door of the house my husband and I bought at the ripe old age of 23, thank you Air Force and VA loan. Thank you for giving us this house that somehow sits under a dark cloud since we bought it, with every fixer-upper problem that ever existed, from an ever-flooding main drain to an ever-flooding basement to hail damage as thick and broken as my heart right now.

The house my second child was born in. The only house my children knew until we packed up everything and moved to Spain eleven years ago.

The house with the huge and expensive yard.

The house with the lilac bushes and the playground clubhouse.

The house with the two-car garage, the covered patio, the jetted tub.

The house Bruce thought we’d live in till we died, his Tennesseean tendencies so hard to break down.

It’s so hard to break down, this life, this shattered siding we “invested” in, this roof we’ve replaced once, this dumpster full of junk that isn’t ours, this tire swing that’s still there.

In my Subaru, sitting across the street with my youngest daughter and her forever friend, I had the “Notice to Quit” form next to me in the passenger seat; she had the tape; I had their phone numbers.

Instead, I took this picture. I saw them throwing things into the dumpster and loading things into the truck and never noticing us. I saw my life walk in and out, in and out of the empty garage, the giant spruce next door, the giant ash still growing in our backyard.

And I couldn’t get out of the car. I couldn’t confront the man with the arsenal of guns, the daughter and her girlfriend who’d lived there for years though she wasn’t on the lease, the broken siding, the unanswered insurance calls, the probably-leaking roof, the definitely-flooding basement we scraped everything together to finish… the loss.

The loss that is so profound when you quit. When someone gives you a Notice to Quit, the first step in the eviction process. The Life Eviction that is my second child moving out, barely 18, still that baby born in this room of THIS HOUSE, and wanting to live there now instead of living with us.

Look how proud we were, holding that baby in that tiny garden-level bedroom, Izzy just a bit apprehensive about her loss of “I’m the center-of-the-world status”, us in our twenties, in our home, our home, our home…

Her home.

There was no Notice to Quit. I didn’t get out of the car. Made a phone call instead. Quietly pleaded for the keys, the vacancy, the lease to end.

If you didn’t notice, I almost never quit.

And neither will she.