Eight years ago, my husband and I decided to move our family from California to Kentucky. On days we miss our LA favorites, like animal fries from In-N-Out Burger or warm sunshine when it’s dreary and 22 degrees, we play the game: What would life be like if we stayed? It starts out breezy with talk of Disneyland rides and running into celebrities like Harry Connick Jr., but the conversation never lasts too long.
“If we stayed,” I say softly, “I would’ve missed out on time with my dad.”
When we lived on the other side of the country, we had less time together
That’s when the fun stops, and my husband reaches for my hand. We spent our first four years in Louisville living 15 minutes away from my parents, and then my father died unexpectedly. If we had stayed in LA, family time would’ve been reduced to two weeks a year and short phone calls. I couldn’t have predicted that coming back home would give us such a gift — more time with my dad. And it almost didn’t happen.
Committing to a cross-country move was no small thing. This was why I hadn’t packed up our house in the middle of a no-sleeping week during my son’s colicky fourth trimester. I was ready for family dinners, sleepovers, and the support I’d craved since our kiddo was born. But even though I felt ready, my husband needed time. A big move meant big changes in careers and friends. So, we waited and considered while our kid moved out of diapers and into Pull-Ups.
I continued calling and FaceTiming my parents so I could feel more connected. And this is how our nightly story time chats became a ritual — until my son started asking to see his grandparents during the day, too.
One particular afternoon, my toddler said, “Call Papa?” So I phoned my dad at work because he always answered. After talking to his grandson about Legos, we finalized a time for an upcoming visit. That’s when I confided that I was nervous that a move home wasn’t in our future. With more confidence in me than I had in myself, he said gently, “You’ll know when it’s right.” Since my dad was, you know…my dad, I believed him.
We decided to move back to Kentucky at the right time
Five years after our son was born and many discussions later, my husband and I finally found the right time — just before our son entered Kindergarten. My dad was right. Once we were back in Louisville, it took maybe two full days to realize that being home did not disappoint. I could feel my body relax in a way it hadn’t for years. Moving home gave me the safety I was looking for. For my son, the closeness was life-changing in all the best ways.
“Papa, can you make soup?”
Basically, from the moment we moved, my son was obsessed with my dad’s homemade chicken soup. It was an ordeal to prepare, but without fail, my father cooked it whenever his grandson asked. But that’s not the only Papa-related craze my kid leaned into once we were home. Games of hide-and-seek, walks around the lake, making paper airplanes, and Papa’s pancakes were a few of the favorites my kid loved about visiting his grandfather.
The best was after our weekly dinners, my son and I would climb into our car, and wave goodbye to my mom and dad from the driveway. As we drove out through the neighborhood and turned the corner, my dad would magically appear on the sidewalk, waving again. My son was astounded and laughed so hard, shouting, “Papa, how did you do that?!” I never told my kid that his grandfather had simply run through two backyards to catch us. I was happy to let him believe his Papa was magic.
Moving home gave us all more than we knew we needed — time together. Countless memories were made that wouldn’t have happened had we stayed. Those taken-for-granted, everyday moments of homemade soup and silly waves are forever part of us. In the four years since my dad’s sudden heart attack, this is what’s helped us through our shock and grief. Our lives wouldn’t be as full without them.
