I was a forensic scientist in the NYPD for eight years. I recently left to build a better life in Michigan for my family of introverts. I wrote this the day we bought our house there.

They’ll just see a house.

They won’t see the 21-year-old rookie New Yorker, counting pennies at a kitchen table pulled from the trash. They won’t see tacos for Thanksgiving dinner. They won’t see the student attending college meetings for the free food. They won’t see the five-block walk for a candy bar because the subway stand had them for 50 cents cheaper than the corner store. They won’t see five years spent without a car and six years without cable.

They won’t see the IAB investigations. They won’t read the snarling anonymous letters of false accusations. They won’t hear the quiet of the gym chosen over the negativity of the lunch room. They won’t notice the girl crying in the bathroom at work. They won’t feel the stomach aches while lying in bed. They’ll never know the determination it took.

They’ll see 10 years condensed into one Facebook post. But they won’t see the grit.

They won’t feel the relief of promotions. The quiet tucking away of extra money. They won’t notice how she lives within her means. They won’t see the hope. The formation of the goal and the patience to arrive. They won’t notice the purchase of a Honda over the lease of a Lexus. They won’t hear of the plan to save at a New York rate and spend at a Michigan rate.

They’ll just see a house.

But she? She’ll see a castle. She’ll see 75% less taxes and double the square footage. She’ll see four rooms to sleep in and three rooms to bathe in. She’ll see a two-car garage and a finished basement. A second floor laundry and walk-in closets. She’ll see plans for an office, a library, a bar, and a man-cave. She’ll look out on the back deck and imagine cookouts and cocktails.

She’ll remember the day she left the malcontents behind. The day she walked out the door for the last time, threw her hands toward the sky, and smiled. She’ll remember the lieutenant’s laugh as he scoffed at her plan to move back to Detroit. “I hear it’s a lovely place,” were the sarcastic last words he said to her as he walked away laughing.

He won’t see her smile at his empty life.

She’ll remember her friends. Their gift of endless laughter and the healing of her soul. Days spent at BBQs and nights spent on rooftops. Peruvian feasts and beer gardens. Kind coworkers who used their eyes more often than their mouths. She’ll see chaperones of encouragement and forgiveness of friends. She will harbor gratitude for every little moment of her stupid little life.

They’ll just see a house.

But she will finally—finally—see


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