We visited her future group home this week. I wanted to hate it.
No such luck.
It was everything I could have wanted for my daughter, if I ever dreamed of her moving out. I don’t know that I did. But if I did, I would have wanted a big beautiful home in light colors with bright artwork on the walls. Tons of open space for her to run back and forth like she likes to do. Girls close to her age for roommates. A big living room with comfy couches. Her own bedroom we could decorate with her own TV and space to be alone. A big backyard. A nice neighborhood in a welcoming town.
Check, check, check and check.
As I stood in the middle of the house, I could picture Brielle in it, her home, comfortable and happy.
I’m happy for her. I really am.
Everything will be OK. I know it.
But that doesn’t erase the ache in my heart.
A few weeks ago, when I told someone about Brielle’s pending move, they said something that really bugged me. I know they didn’t mean any harm. They had no idea how sensitive I can be. But when I told them Bree was moving into a group home, they asked me if she had become too much to handle at home.
As if I was kicking her out because I couldn’t handle it any more. (That’s how I interpreted it because I’m sensitive and emotional as heck lately).
I would care for Brielle at home for many more years. I would give up the sleep, the vacations, the sitting down, if I knew for sure I would be there for all of those years to come.
But I can’t guarantee my living. I am Brielle’s mom and sole guardian and I would do anything for her, but life is a gift that doesn’t come with a firm end date.
What if I died and nothing was set up for Brielle? Who would take care of her? Where would she go? What would she do?
I’m going to answer those questions the best I can, while I still can. And no matter what anyone says, no matter how much it hurts or how personally I take it, I do know that I am doing the right thing. For her and for me.
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