No one knows what goes on inside another person’s home, even if the “others” are your own children’s homes. My three girls have been married a long time, with grown up children of their own. Those that live in another city are annual visitors to my house and I make the trip and try to visit them at least once a year. The annual visits to me are usually around a holiday where the house is full. Everyone arriving for an intense, sometimes stressful, family visit. The cousins get to see each other and the siblings and their husbands hang out together, too. Everyone is experiences the regression associated with “coming home.” Rivalries and long forgotten issues reemerge. Nothing new gets resolved and after the visit, everyone goes home and I luxuriate in the quiet resumption of my personal life.

Recently I decided to visit my daughter in Florida and stay for a couple of months. This was a first for me as I have never visited for more than a week to ten days at a time. Believe me, it wouldn’t have happened except for the fact that the previous winter had been a disaster for me. I was invited because my family felt I should not be in an icy, snowy city during the winter because the previous winter I fell and spent a month in the hospital.

Florida for two months is not a bad thing. In fact, it turned out to be quite wonderful. Despite my
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