Painting Over Memories: Letting Go of a Family Home

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I lay down a stroke of whitish paint—Swiss Coffee—over the dark teal wainscoting in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

It’s not the fumes.

The color choice comes at the directive of our Realtor, part of the process of preparing the home for sale after my in-laws passed. Only now, it’s no longer a home—just a house. I’m helping erase the memories, the personal imprint of a family, stripping it down to a blank canvas so another family can imagine their own lives here.

It feels like painting over the Mona Lisa, preparing the space for a new masterpiece. Because that’s what we do—each of us creates a masterpiece in our own way, and our living spaces reflect us just as much as the books we read, the clothes we wear, and the way we see the world.

Next, I pry off the baseboard in the back bedroom.

There it is—a painter’s palette of browns, blues, tans, whites, and grays, layered like the rings of a tree. Each color a mark of time. Each layer a chapter.

This room has been so many things: a young boy’s bedroom, a teen’s retreat, a young man’s space when his girlfriend moved in before finding her own place. Later, a guest room, an office, a granddaughter’s hideaway, a storage space, then back to an office again. A living, breathing space, evolving alongside its occupants, shaped by the circumstances of their lives.

Life is change.

This was also my refuge in the early ’80s, when my parents’ divorce played out like an After School Special—messy, dramatic, and painful. My in-laws, Ma and Pa, as I lovingly call them, took me in for a short time when I was 18 or 19, a young girlfriend to their son. They welcomed me as if I belonged.

Ron was away at college, only home on weekends, so their grace enveloped me completely. We were already such close friends the whole idea of moving-in surfaced seamlessly—not a big deal, and most likely mentioned casually over sips of coffee. Matter-of-fact was Ma’s style. It probably helped, around this time, that Pa saw a future for me in their family. He told Ron, “Now, she’s the kind of girl you want to marry.”

I suppose painting this house and putting it up for sale stirs up sadness. But, I can’t name the feeling exactly.

What’s the word for erasing someone’s presence?

Because this isn’t just a kitchen. And it’s not just a bedroom. It’s where they lived. Where they loved. Where they died.

Doesn’t that make it hallowed ground?

I’ll always think of this home as one of my own. And I’ll always be grateful for Ma and Pa’s open arms.

A home isn’t just a house with walls and paint. It begins as a raw canvas, a space where a particular group of people come together and make it home. It becomes a foundation, the backdrop for life’s most memorable moments—graduations, job offer celebrations, wedding receptions, too-early Christmas mornings, grand Thanksgiving dinners, colorful baby showers, a baby’s first steps, pinochle parties, late-night scary movie adventures, spaghetti dinner on Friday nights…

But a home is more than just a setting for joy. It’s a refuge, a place that cradles us through life’s hardest moments—miscarriages, illness, death.

Through it all, in the snapshots of my favorite memories, one thing remains constant: a home, appearing quietly in the background, holding it all.

As for my time here, maybe Ma and Pa knew all those years ago what Ron didn’t yet and what I had only hoped—that we would create our own masterpiece. That we’d start by getting married.

And in 1984, we did.

And we’re still here.

Ma and Pa’s house was sold today. Now, it’s our turn to welcome someone new. There’s something thrilling about the thought of another family living, loving, and creating their own masterpiece in this space.

I’m so happy for them. 🌷

I hope they come to love it just as much as we have.

Cheers to all of your own lovely spaces.

Love and light,

Deborah