Many months have passed since I last wrote. They have been months of grief, responsibility, and difficult decisions — especially life in the sandwich generation.
I didn’t mention in my last post that Dave lost his father in mid-August. Instead of “living our best life” in Florida (I’ll get to those last two years later), we found ourselves weighed down by grief and the added stress of Dave becoming the executor of his father’s estate. His father had continued to live in Colorado—despite our repeated pleas for him to move to Florida with us—in a mountain home outside Boulder. He also left behind a sweet little dog named Mitzi.
We spent the summer of 2025 going through a house he had lived in for over 40 years. Without intending any disrespect, my in-laws were hoarders—keeping countless empty boxes, containers, and paperwork dating back 50 years. Sorting through it all and clearing the house was a monumental task.
At the same time, I was still working as a teacher, with only summers and holidays off. We were also trying to figure out what our daughter should do, as she had just moved there. The weight of all this—combined with the increasing stress of teaching and caregiver burnout—began to affect my health. My blood pressure was through the roof.
After many discussions and meetings with financial advisors, I made the difficult decision to retire, submitting my notice on October 3, 2025. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but the administration at my school was incredibly understanding, and I know I could return if I ever chose to.
Our youngest daughter gave up her job and apartment to move in with him and help care for him. We spent the summer clearing out the basement and creating space for her. I can’t count the number of trips I made to Goodwill and the dump—fingers and toes wouldn’t cover it. But we created space for her, and we left in time for me to begin the new school year.
She moved in—and, sadly, he passed away just five days later. It was devastating for her, though she is grateful she was able to be with him and sit by his side in the hospital during his final days.
We returned for two weeks with all our kids and my sister-in-law. Soon, we discovered critical paperwork scattered throughout the house. After my retirement, we went back to Colorado for two-and-a-half months to begin the full cleanup.
The house was very old, with many original features. Almost immediately after arriving, the boiler failed—and $35,000 later, we finally had heat. That expense made it clear we needed to get the house on the market as soon as possible. We didn’t want to keep pouring money into it, especially with the nagging suspicion that it would likely be torn down or completely remodeled by new owners.
Day after day, we hauled things to Goodwill and the dump, slowly letting go. When we finally left, the house was empty. As I looked around one last time, tears filled my eyes as memories of all the moments we had shared there came rushing back. Watching our daughter wave goodbye, tears streaming down her face as she walked back into the empty house alone, was one of the most painful moments I’ve ever experienced.
Did we do the right thing by moving to Florida? The pull of our past, present, and future weighed heavily on our hearts.
So as not to leave this post on a sad note, we returned to Florida and into the sunlight—shorts and T-shirts where once there were gloves and hats. We walked hand in hand, warmed by the golden sunshine and by each other, reminded that beneath all the titles we carry—son and daughter, mom and dad, Grandolph and Gigi—we are first and always husband and wife, best friends.
Mitzi, the newest heartbeat in our little family, soaked up the walk and the warmth as joyfully as we did. It was a gentle reminder of why we chose to be here — not to escape our past, but to build the next chapter of our lives together.
