Farewell to Bow

Letting go of a home

Our East London flat will always be the first place we were a family: a skinny loft with a giant factory window set into the exposed brick.

It was too small for the three of us: the pram couldn’t get through the door without bouncing against at least three corners. Our dining table became a changing table; and with the bassinet set up, there was no place to hang drying laundry.

But it’s the place Robert and I moved into together: our first home, when I didn’t know I was pregnant yet. That deep blue couch is where I lay nauseous during the first trimester, and has the armrest I gripped during labor contractions.

I filled the double-high walls with watercolors and little ink drawings. In our pistachio-green KitchenAid set, we made endless smoothies, muffins, freezable dishes of fresh-noodle lasagnas. I hosted dinner parties. Friends slept on the couch downstairs.

I grew to treasure the closeness. We could hear each other — or the baby — from any part of the place.

We built a community: friends and neighbors in the building, down the block, a short walk away. I became enough of a regular to share a snack with the owner of my favorite produce shop.

I never did eat an eel pie at G. Kelly’s or watch a match in the West Ham stadium, but I learned the FC’s anthem lyrics (they’re painted on the doors), and discovered almost every way to enter Victoria Park. I know which bakery has the good sourdough, and…