GOODBYE, 310

The random decorations of 310.

GOODBYE, 310

Today, we said goodbye to a chapter.

Goodbye to our apartment in Delaware.

We are officially Maryland residents.

And tonight, I drove home with a full heart and the biggest smile on my face.

Last summer, we were stuck in a strange limbo.

No plan.

No permanent home.

No idea what came next.

We knew Maryland was where we wanted to be. We even had a house waiting for us on base. But if you read my last post, you know the story: X filed for sole custody and blocked us from moving.

He had already moved 45 minutes away—yet fought tooth and nail to stop us from moving just 60.

I assumed it would resolve quickly. I checked the mail obsessively, waiting for a court date or a ruling that would throw out his ridiculous filing.

It never came.

In early September, my house in Delaware finally sold.

I sat down with my lawyer and asked what to expect. Her response?

Buckle up.

Family court takes 1–2 years. If I was lucky, we might have a decision before the next school year.

I cried the entire drive home.

J was about to start his first year of high school. The whole reason I’d asked to move when I did was to spare him from switching schools midstream. But X made sure that’s exactly what happened.

In fact, my lawyer said he wanted to make the transition as difficult as possible for the kids.

Because of the delay, we couldn’t move in with D in Maryland like we’d dreamed.

So we scrambled.

And if you’ve ever tried to find short-term housing in a small Delaware town, you know—it’s a challenge. Somehow, we landed an apartment one town over.

Then came the next hurdle: the judge ruled the kids had to stay in the same schools. Our town has five elementary schools with hyperlocal zoning—move a few feet, and you're out.

So I scrambled again.

Begged. Pleaded.

Found a way to keep the kids in-district while securing a roof over our heads.

All while paying double rent for a place we didn’t want or need—while our dream home in Maryland sat waiting for us.

Enter: Apartment 310.

Third floor.

No elevator.

Just stairs.

Endless, soul-crushing stairs.

Move-in was brutal.

Every time I carried baby girl up those steps—sweating, huffing, exhausted—I got angry all over again.

There was a rotten banana on the first-floor stairwell. Why mention it? Because it stayed there for five months.

At one point, during a game where we laughed about each other’s most-used phrases, the kids said mine was:“Watch out for the banana.”

The apartment was bare.

We didn’t hang a single decoration.

Mattresses sat directly on the floor.

A stock photo of a random smiling family stayed propped on a shelf.

We borrowed a kitchen table from my mom.

Used $16 knives from Marshalls.

Ate on plastic plates from Amazon.

And yet—it was full of love.

We cuddled.

Watched movies.

Rode scooters.

Threw balls in the parking lot.

Laughed.

Sat on the porch.

Laughed

Did homework.

Laughed.

Played games.

Made dinner together.

Laughed

Took long walks.

Laughed.

Cried.

Lived.

Loved.

And Today, we finally got to move out.

D, my mom, and I spent the last few days hauling furniture and trash down all those stairs, tossing mattresses over the balcony, scrubbing the walls, and mopping the floors. When we locked the door for the last time, the place looked beautiful.

But I won’t miss it for a second.

At first glance, Apartment 310 felt like a prison sentence—just another reminder of X’s relentless control and need to keep me small.

But I choose to see it differently.

Apartment 310 is proof of our resilience.

Proof that we can make a home out of anything.

Proof that love doesn’t need matching curtains or a Pinterest-worthy kitchen.

It wasn’t where we wanted to be.

But it held us when we needed it most.

And it was always filled with love.

My husband eating his lunch on porch furniture in 310 while working on moving out today!