“One last thing,” my husband, Randy, said as we sat at the kitchen table. “We still have to figure out what to do with your father’s house.” We’d gone over all the other details of my late father’s estate, but the hardest question loomed: What to do with the house?
Truth was, I was avoiding it. My father had built the house himself. I’d spent my entire childhood there. I had to say good-bye to Dad. Did I really have to let go of my family home too?
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” I told Randy. “We’ll sleep on it.”
That night I lay awake in bed, thinking about the house. Dad was from a strong Ukrainian background. Family meant everything to him, and the words “home” and “family” were synonymous in his mind.
His brothers had helped him build our house. His door was always open to friends and relatives. In fact, for the longest time he didn’t even lock it! It sat on a small plot of land that he covered with a garden and lush grass that he prided himself on maintaining.
How I wished I could go over there tomorrow and find Dad there on his porch, admiring it with me. Or hanging out his wash on the outside clothesline he used all year round. He said the fresh air made the clothes smell cleaner.
I had my own house, but I couldn’t bear to sell. Not yet.
“Maybe we should rent it,” I told my husband the next morning.
Randy looked at me over his coffee. “Could you really find someone you’d be willing to entrust it to?”
Randy was right. I couldn’t let just anyone live in Dad’s house. They’d have to love it like Dad did and take care of the garden. They’d have to share Dad’s devotion to family. What were the chances of finding someone that special looking for a home?
“Are you sure you’re not just avoiding selling?” Randy said.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I tried to picture someone else in the house. Someone besides Dad. I just couldn’t. Dear God, please help me find a solution I can live with.
We decided not to advertise. We would simply spread the word among family and friends. It struck me as a reasonable compromise. After several e-mails to co-workers at the hospital, I got a lead on a secretary, Christine, at the nursing school.
Christine had two grown daughters, both of whom had gone out on their own. Christine was looking for a nice home for herself and her dog, Chloe. We agreed to meet at Dad’s house that weekend.
Sunday I got in the car and drove to Dad’s. Once I arrived I sat in the car admiring the house, remembering the joy it held inside. It was hard to imagine anyone appreciating what it meant to me.
I went in to wait for Christine. Memories of Dad flooded over me. Renting suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. I felt guilty about wasting Christine’s time.
I heard her car pull in and stepped outside to meet her. She wasn’t alone. “I brought Chloe,” she said, opening the back door of her car to let a big, friendly dog emerge. “I figured since it might be her home too she should see it. I hope you don’t mind.”
Chloe took me by surprise and bounded right through the front door! “I have two dogs myself,” I said, “and my dad loved animals.” What could I do but show Christine around?
“This extra bedroom is perfect for when my daughters want to stay the night,” Christine said. “They like their independence, but we are very close. And if I turn the basement into an exercise room, they won’t be able to stay away!”
I already felt comfortable around Christine. She seemed to want to bring every room in the house back to life.
I took her to the backyard. “A garden?” she said. “I thought it was too much to hope for! This porch must be magical in summer.” Christine ran her hand along the patio furniture. “I can already picture the family picnics I’ll have.”
She stopped, a little embarrassed at her own enthusiasm.
“Family was so important to my father,” I said. “And his home was at the center of it. I think it’s a Ukrainian thing.”
“It’s definitely a Ukrainian thing,” Christine said. “My parents were from Ukraine.”
“Really?” I said.
“I’ll make pierogies to prove it!”
Christine and I talked for hours. She even shared Dad’s commitment to hanging laundry outside to dry. “It just makes the clothes smell cleaner!” she said. By the time she got up to leave the sun had set. Chloe had fallen asleep in the grass.
Dad’s house would be in good hands. Angels delivered the perfect renter right to his door.
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