After Ian died, I adapted back to being in the house as an only adult on my own pretty quickly. I’d lived here on my own for some 6 years before Ian moved in, and he was here for two and a half years.  Reverting to a known mode of operation, although unwanted, wasn’t that difficult.  Yes I had to factor in care of a toddler, but having to manage the house on my own wasn’t too difficult an adaption – I could, and did, do it on autopilot.  

Being on my own wasn’t an alien feeling or experience for me, I was very much used to it.  Although I missed Ian terribly, I wasn’t 

that uncomfortable being an only adult in this space.  A weird combination.

Jumping to current time, it’s been really hot where I live the last few days – up around the 43C/109F mark during the day, high 20s/mid-80s overnight – with bushfires that are burning out of control on the edge of the metropolitan area.  We can see the smoke billowing skyward from our front door in the middle of suburbia.  

The overnight heat, plus the acrid smell of smoke that’s permeating the air is making sleep difficult for both John and I.  John’s been up later than usual, and so he’ll try and get himself to sleep without me there even in this environment, I’ve spent quite a bit of time sitting on the couch watching a lot of late-night TV.  Sitting there quietly, slowing down, I was really conscious of Ian’s absence next to me on the couch for the first time in a long time.

It wasn’t overly sad though, more a wistful thought.  Along the lines of “I wish Ian was here so we could just do that sit down and chat and enjoy each other’s presence once kid(s) are in bed”.   Like the stereotypical nuclear family.  

What I wish there was, but know there isn’t going to be unless I meet someone new.  Something I’m not wanting at this stage.