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 which cafes serve tea in teapots.

We might come back — I wouldn’t mind it. But our next six months are Stateside, and we’re not keeping our London lease.

It’s a good thing our apartment was so small, because everything in it had to go.

“We should start by sorting piles,” I suggested weeks ago, “of pack, sell, give away.”

We made our way piecemeal through the objects of our lives, working around the dual demands of Robert’s job and our still very young baby.

We sold 114 items on Vinted in just over a month. Between baby cries, I’d grab from the “sell” bin and photograph an object. I could list it while nursing, and once it sold, package it during a wake window. Robert could drop it off on the way to work, or I could wear baby in a sling to the post office.

“Guess how much we made,” I quizzed Robert when we cracked £1,000 in sales.