February 20: Home, Sweet Home

11am flight back to Britain - I don't want to go. Snow still over Dartmoor and Exmoor as we scoop up over the south coast. Arrive back at dad's house, and I'm buggered. Every square millimetre of my strength is taken up in trying not to cry. It's not just that the family home is gone (dad's house is lovely but was never home), it's just that I feel completely homeless and lost. I moved into my own new house in the south west back in August. But - bar my hidy hole in the loft - building work has made it inhabitable, and early-pregnancy made socialising a no-go. I'm as unsettled as a feather on the breeze. Then I spent much of December back home visiting gran in hospital every day and helping clear the house. And then all of January on mum's sofa. Now though, there are no excuses. For the first time, I can drive again since the operation. And I need to start sorting my own house, and getting back to work, and creating a life me and Bump can be happy with.
But, I just can't face it. It seems such a cold lonely option, especially after spending the best part of the last six weeks with my family. I need to be brave, to accept that I live on my own in a city I'm not terribly acquainted with. To accept I'll probably have no company the rest of the weekend. To accept that that's my lot. But I just hate the thought of it.
I plan to go back. I do. I really do. I plan to get in the car and drive the 40-minutes to my lovely terrace that is not yet quite mine, and be strong and find something to do that will occupy me. Heavy-hearted, I climb in behind the steering wheel, start the ignition...
Dad brings out something I've forgotten and catches me sobbing my heart out. He takes out the keys, talks me in for a cup of tea, tells me I don't need to leave, that I can stay the night, have some dinner, get some rest, go to sleep.
Wearily, I do just that. Reality can wait another day. I'll be stronger then.