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When children leave the home

My instructions were clear and specific—do not touch the scribbled walls in the bedrooms. They are to be left as they are. After years of neglect, I finally decided our old townhouse was due for major renovations. It has been emptied for years now, after my children and I left home—each of us finding our own places, navigating our individual lives.

As I inspected the work done on the lower floor, I was pleased. The repair team was right on schedule, and the reconstruction was progressing smoothly. It looked like the house was coming back to life, though in a way that felt almost foreign to me.

This house was the first one we owned after leaving the province—a sanctuary in a quiet neighborhood lined with trees, a home that had cradled us through growth and challenges. Every corner holds a story. Every room is etched with memories, but none more precious than those on the walls of the bedrooms upstairs.

The larger room, once shared by my daughter and me, has a wall that is plastered with flattened tea boxes—a colorful mosaic she patiently assembled over time. It’s a playful yet deeply artistic reminder of her creative spirit. She’s an artist, complex in her expressions and full of ideas that spilled out onto everything she touched.

Bedroom wall / photo by the Writer

In the smaller bedroom, there’s a wall scrawled with mathematical formulas, remnants of my son’s high school and college years. The neat scribbles, the clear logic—so indicative of his brilliant, methodical mind. He loved numbers, and those markings eventually led him to a successful career as a software engineer.

Bedroom wall / photo by the Writer

Those walls, covered in their youthful expressions, are sacred to me—symbols of their childhoods, and proof of the people they have become. They embody the spirt of this house as a shelter for my family. 

I decided to check on the progress upstairs. As I reached the top of the stairs and opened the door to the first room, my heart sunk. The wall, once bursting with colors, was blank—repainted in a new, sterile white. I ran to the other room, panicked, only to find the same.

The formulas were gone. My son’s handwriting, erased.

This was when I woke up from a bad dream.

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You give your children roots to grow and wings to fly. It’s the flying part that’s the hardest." — Anonymous

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I got up from that nightmare, breathless and fuming. Looking around, I saw the familiar scribbles, the tea boxes still clinging to the walls. It was just a dream. Relief washed over me. But over the next days, the dream lingered, gnawing at me, stirring questions I had not allowed myself to ask. Had I become too attached to these walls ? To the memories they hold? My children are  happy, thriving. I had raised them well, sacrificed willingly and without regret. They are my greatest achievements—smart, responsible adults. But the dream left me questioning if I had been holding on too long to their past, unable to fully step into my own future. The memories of our time here are like warm blankets, comforting and familiar. They are loyal companions, but they are also crutches I’ve leaned on. I realized that perhaps these walls, like the house itself, had grown old, coated in dust and faded with time.

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You give your children roots to grow and wings to fly. It’s the flying part that’s the hardest." — Anonymous

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As a single mom, when my children left home, I was overwhelmed by a unique blend of emotions that I had not fully anticipated. I had come to define myself entirely by the role of being their mother. The house, once full of laughter, arguments, and the constant chaos of raising children, now felt painfully quiet. It was as if, with their departure, a large piece of my life's purpose had disappeared.

The loneliness that followed their absence was profound. Every decision, every sacrifice, every late-night worry had been mine to carry. Now, with them gone, the house felt like an empty shell. Without their presence, I found myself questioning: who am I now?

Losing that sense of identity was one of the hardest parts. For years, I was “Mom”—the person who was always there, balancing work and home, ensuring everything was taken care of. With no one left to care for, I felt adrift. Who was I beyond being their mother? It felt as though the role that had once grounded me had suddenly slipped through my fingers, leaving me to reconstruct myself in a world that seemed unfamiliar.

(photo by raybilcliff @pexel)  

The pangs of isolation, that grappling fear of being truly alone, arrived. Now, I had to face the reality that I might need to rebuild my support network, make new connections, and find a community outside the one I had shared with them.

The practical realities of an empty nest also loomed large. Financially, I had always managed, but the absence of my children meant reassessing everything. Could I downsize? Should I continue living in the same home? What would my future look like now, especially as I grew older? These concerns added another layer of complexity to an already emotional time.

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“However painful the process of leaving home, for parents and for children, the really frightening thing for both would be the prospect of the child never leaving home.”-                         Robert Neely Bellah

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But amidst the sadness and disorientation, there was also an undercurrent of pride and fulfillment. There was immense satisfaction in knowing that despite the challenges of single motherhood, I had succeeded. Watching them step confidently into the world filled me with a sense of accomplishment.

There was as well a deep sense of relief.  Single parenting is exhausting; the constant demands of their needs, their schedules, their worries—it all takes a toll. Now, for the first time in years, I could rest. There were no groceries to rush, no grades to check, no late-night concerns to ease. The quiet gave me space to think about myself—something I hadn’t done in a long time.

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“There isn’t a child who hasn’t gone out into the brave new world who eventually doesn’t return to the old homestead carrying a bundle of dirty clothes.” -  Art Buchwald

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When my daughter moved out, I got my own place too, far from the familiarity of the roles that had once defined me. It was a way to carve out a space for myself, to explore a life that was mine alone. We still get together often, whether at our original home or in other places, but no one lived permanently in that old house anymore—until the recent renovations began.

As time went by, despite the distance, our connection remained strong. Calls, video chats and travelling together on work breaks became our new routine. The small children I once raised had become my friends, our relationship had evolved.  

I realized that this stage of life was not just the end of something—it was the beginning of something else.  Now, for the first time in what felt like forever, I could rediscover long-lost dreams. I could turn inward, finally giving myself permission to grow outside the identity of motherhood. It was both strange and exhilarating to realize that this chapter of life wasn’t just about loss but about possibility. There was so much potential for growth, self-discovery, and joy still waiting to be explored.

So, I heeded the message of my dream - I had the walls of the house repainted.   

Today, there are no more mathematical scribbles and teabag collage on the bedroom walls. 

In their places are fresh colors, vibrant designs. The walls had been important markers of a time long past, filled with the memories and milestones of our family’s journey. But they were never meant to be permanent. They were symbols of moments, not prisons holding me in the past. It was time to embrace the blank canvas that lay before me and imagine a future not defined by old memories but by the infinite possibilities ahead.

I was and still am scared. But like the walls of that house, I was ready for a change.

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ON CHILDREN

(Kahlil Gibran, 1883 –1931)

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. 

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

 You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

 Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

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Before we part…..

The change of seasons in our lives may be daunting. But we can either be stagnant and stale, slowly dying, or move along with the tides, ride the waves with trust that as before, in all the adversities that we have surpassed - we will be alright. The world is not against us, we will be fine.           

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Thank you for reading my essay. My name is Abigail Ortega. I write warm, poignant essays and short stories. I also paint simple artworks. If you like to read more of my work, you may join our newsletter here: https://afto.myflodesk.com/qj13kigo4b.