Deniece Trying To Get Back Into Life

Deniece trying to get back into life

Chapter 1

It's Friday morning, Deniece's seven-year-old son David and her five-year-old daughter Wendy are off to school. Deniece sat down with a cup of coffee and wanted a few minutes alone. She has a slightly eccentric way of making her coffee, which she is particular about; for instance, she counts exactly 17 stirs clockwise and then 4 stirs counterclockwise, believing this ritual brings balance to her day.

Sitting there with her hands wrapped around the cup and holding it close to her lips, she thought about what to do today. It had been four years since her husband had died, and the insurance had paid off the house and a good amount of money in the bank, leaving her and the kids well taken care of.

They lived in a grand three-story colonial with five large bedrooms, each with its own personality, and six full bathrooms for convenience and solitude. The connected three-car garage has a motor home space.

Deniece slept in a quiet master bedroom with a walk-in closet and soaking tub and separate shower. Four bedrooms, used by her two children and two vacant guests, were large and filled with natural light from broad windows.

The house boasted a fireplace-equipped family room, formal living and dining rooms, and a huge kitchen with modern equipment and lots of counter space for cooking and entertaining.

Deniece used the half-finished basement as a home gym and hobby area, the kids enjoyed playing on the backyard's patio, garden, and small playground. The house's warm and inviting atmosphere offered Deniece and her family many good memories of her marriage and their time together.

Deniece rarely ventured out these days, her world having shrunk to the boundaries of their home. She told herself it was for the kids--that they needed her constant presence--but deep down, she knew it was also her way of holding onto what remained of their family after losing her husband. The house had become both sanctuary and prison, a place where memories lived in every corner, keeping her tethered to the past even as she struggled to move forward.

She sat there considering how her life had changed and yearned for her existence before her husband passed away. She had been running the family and raising David and Wendy all her life, but now she wanted to rediscover herself and re-connect with the world.

She knew her great, beautiful house was too large for just the three of them and that the extra space might be put to use. She thought about boarders in order to save expenses; suddenly they seemed more appealing. She could easily house someone with two vacant bedrooms, and the extra money would enable her to follow her interests. Having a new flat mate to talk to and exchange stories seemed exciting.

She heard the alarm on the stove going off, again. "Damn it, stove, ever since Michael's death you do nothing but sound off at the same time each morning."

Deniece imagined a clean face in the morning, help with the children, and a different perspective. Lost in thought, she resolved to begin looking for a boarder who would fit their little family and enable her to begin a new chapter. Rising up, she walked to her computer and, feeling positive and rejuvenated for the first time in a long time, began furiously drafting a boarder ad.

******

After posting the ad, she headed to her bedroom to change from her flannel pajamas into her morning workout clothes. Once dressed in her faded gray sweatpants and a well-worn cotton t-shirt, she headed downstairs to the basement and her home gym.

Deniece descended the basement stairs, her hand trailing along the wooden banister that Michael had installed himself during their second year in the house. The familiar scent of rubber mats and metal welcomed her like an old friend.

She approached the stationary bike first--her initial purchase after Michael's passing, when the doctor had suggested exercise might help with the insomnia. The padded seat still bore the slight impression of her form, a testament to the countless hours she'd spent pedaling nowhere while her mind raced everywhere.

"Not today," she murmured, fingers brushing across the handlebars before moving on to the treadmill.

This machine had come later, a birthday gift to herself last year when she'd finally felt ready to start training for the 5K that she and Michael had always talked about running together.

She tapped the screen, watching it flicker to life with a soft blue glow. The worn spot on the left hand grip reminded her of those first few months--how she'd gripped it so tightly during her walks, as if afraid to let go.

Her gaze shifted to the aerobics mat in the corner, still relatively new. She'd added it only three months ago, after Wendy had asked why mommy never smiled anymore. The bright purple mat and the subscription to virtual classes had been an attempt to find something that might bring a hint of joy back into her movement.

Against the wall stood the 72-inch TV--Michael's pride and joy, once the centerpiece of their basement movie nights. Now it served a different purpose, streaming workout videos instead of the action films he'd loved. She still couldn't bring herself to watch those without him.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the subtle tension from typing the rental ad earlier, and decided some cardio might be precisely what she needed to clear her mind. The bike called to her today--something about the steady, rhythmic motion that always helped her organize her thoughts.

She settled onto the seat, clipped her feet into the pedals, and navigated to her favorite virtual cycling program. The countryside option caught her eye--rolling hills and meadows that looked nothing like the suburban reality just above her head. As she selected the twenty-minute ride, she remembered Michael's promise to take her cycling through actual French countryside someday.

"One thing at a time," she whispered to herself as the mechanical hum filled the basement and she began to pedal, her muscles remembering what to do even as her heart struggled to find its new rhythm.

As she pedaled along, her thoughts drifted to the rental ad and who might respond. The countryside scene scrolled by on the screen, but her mind was elsewhere, mentally sifting through potential tenants. She wanted someone the kids would connect with--perhaps a graduate student or a young professional with a steady job. Someone responsible who would respect her boundaries without needing constant reminders.

Her house rules seemed reasonable: home by 10 PM to avoid late-night disruptions that might wake the kids; no smoking on the property; no alcohol that could cause misbehavior; and no overnight guests that would make her kids uncomfortable. Unchangeable was the last rule. Romantic affairs and weekend gatherings were not allowed in this family household.

Deniece increased the resistance on the bike as the virtual path began to climb a gentle hill, her calves burning with the effort. She wondered if she'd come across as too strict in the ad, but quickly dismissed the concern. Better to be upfront about expectations than to have conflicts later. Besides, the right person would understand that these rules weren't arbitrary--they were the protective boundaries she'd established to maintain some semblance of normalcy and stability for her children after everything they'd been through.

She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and pushed harder on the pedals, trying to outpace the nagging worry that she might be making a mistake by bringing a stranger into their carefully balanced world.

The video faded to a completion screen after the twenty minutes, displaying her distance and calories burned in cheerful graphics. Deniece sat up straight, her legs still spinning in a gradually slowing rhythm as she caught her breath. She reached down for her water bottle, condensation cool against her palm, and took several long, satisfying gulps, feeling the water refresh her from the inside out.

After wiping her face with the small towel draped over the handlebars, she stepped carefully off the bike, her legs slightly wobbly from the exertion. She made her way to the treadmill and tapped the touch screen to activate the cool down program she'd customized for herself--ten minutes at a gentle walking pace of 2.5 mph with no incline, designed to gradually lower her heart rate while keeping her muscles loose and preventing stiffness later.

The machine hummed to life beneath her feet, the belt beginning its steady rotation as she settled into an easy stride, arms swinging naturally at her sides. This transitional ritual always helped clear her mind, bridging the gap between intense exercise and the demands of her day, giving her those few precious moments to gather her thoughts before rejoining the household above.

Stepping off the treadmill, Deniece stretched her arms overhead one final time before making her way upstairs. Her muscles felt pleasantly fatigued, that satisfying ache that signaled a good workout. She padded through the quiet house, not hearing a sound.

Back in her bedroom, she gathered fresh clothes from her dresser and placed them neatly on her bed before heading to the adjoining bathroom. She turned the gleaming faucet, adjusting until the water ran at just the right temperature--hot enough to soothe her muscles but not scalding. As the large soaking tub filled, she added a generous capful of lavender-scented bubble bath, watching as the water transformed into a foamy cloud of fragrant bubbles.

Steam began to rise, fogging the mirror and wrapping the bathroom in a warm mist. She secured her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, shedding her damp workout clothes and testing the water with her toes before sinking into the comforting embrace of the bath. The bubbles parted and then closed around her body as she leaned back, feeling the day's tension begin to dissolve. This little ritual, this stolen half hour of solitude, was often the only real peace she found in her busy days. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift, knowing the kids were safe at school and wouldn't be home until later in the afternoon.

As she sat in the tub, letting the warm, fragrant water soothe her aching muscles, Deniece's thoughts wandered to the two vacant guest bedrooms situated at the top of the hall stairs.

The first one's adjoining bathroom had a claw-foot tub with pastel blue walls and white trim for a vintage look. With its sleek walk-in shower, the second was contemporary and designed in gentle neutrals for most preferences.

She absentmindedly swirled the bubbles with her fingertips, weighing the pros and cons of each room. The blue room was slightly larger and got beautiful morning light, but the shower in the second room might be more practical for a tenant who was always on the go. Which one should she offer? Or should she let the potential renter choose?

The idea of a stranger occupying either space still sent a flutter of anxiety through her chest. These rooms had been part of their family sanctuary, places where relatives and close friends had stayed, where her husband's parents would visit during holidays. Now they were just empty spaces, collecting dust and memories in equal measure. The extra income would certainly help with future expenses, but it was more than that--perhaps filling one of these rooms would help fill some of the emptiness that had settled over their home since Michael's passing.

She sank deeper into the bubbles, wondering what kind of person would answer her ad, and whether they could possibly understand what it meant to be welcomed into not just a house, but a home still healing from loss.

Getting out of the tub, Deniece reached for her plush cotton towel and patted herself dry, enjoying the lingering scent of lavender that clung to her skin. She wrapped her hair in a second towel before padding across the bathroom to her vanity, where she applied a light moisturizer to her face and arms. For today, she had picked out a favorite summer sundress--a knee-length cotton number in a cheerful yellow with small white daisies scattered across the fabric. It was one of the few colorful items that had survived her post-grief wardrobe purge, when she'd found herself reaching only for blacks and grays.

She slipped the dress over her head, appreciating how the soft material settled against her skin, the fitted bodice giving way to a gently flared skirt that moved with her. Michael had always loved her in this dress. "Sunshine personified," he'd called her when she wore it. Today seemed like a good day to reclaim a bit of that brightness. With potential renters possibly coming to view the room soon, she wanted to appear approachable and put-together--the kind of homeowner who maintained order without being intimidating. The dress struck just the right balance: casual enough for a Saturday at home but polished enough to make a good first impression.

She added a simple silver pendant--a birthday gift from the kids last year--and swept her hair into a loose, damp bun at the nape of her neck. Looking in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman who stared back, someone trying to look hopeful about the future even as she clutched tightly to the past.

She headed to the guest bedrooms, climbing the stairs to the top floor with purposeful steps. The staircase creaked slightly at the familiar spots--third step from the top, second from the bottom--sounds that had become so much a part of their home she hardly noticed them anymore. Reaching the landing, she paused to straighten a family photo hanging slightly askew on the wall before continuing down the hallway.

Opening the door to the first guest room--the blue one with the claw-foot tub--she was greeted by the musty scent of disuse. Sunlight streamed through the partially open curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Deniece moved to the windows and threw them open, letting in the fresh spring breeze. She ran her fingers along the antique dresser, collecting a fine layer of dust, and made a mental note to give both rooms a thorough cleaning before any showings.

The bed was still made up with the same floral comforter from her mother-in-law's last visit, nearly eight months ago. Deniece smoothed out a wrinkle and fluffed the pillows, then opened the closet to check its condition. Empty hangers clinked together like wind chimes. She'd need to clear out the few boxes of Michael's things she'd stored there--college textbooks and old sports trophies she hadn't been ready to part with but couldn't bear to see every day.

Moving to the second bedroom, she repeated the routine--windows open, surfaces assessed, closet inspected. This room, with its more modern aesthetic and walk-in shower, had a better chance of appealing to a young professional. She straightened the simple navy bedspread and contemplated whether to replace the reading lamp with something more contemporary.

Standing in the doorway, Deniece mentally cataloged everything that needed to be done dusting, vacuuming, fresh linens, maybe some new towels for the bathrooms. Both rooms needed to feel welcoming but neutral, a blank canvas where someone new could imagine themselves living. Yet she couldn't help but wonder if the rooms themselves would resist this transformation, if they somehow held the imprint of all the family moments they had witnessed over the years.

She walked back down the stairs, mentally listing the cleaning supplies she'd need. In the hallway closet, she methodically gathered her arsenal: the vacuum with its assortment of attachments, microfiber dusting cloths, glass cleaner, furniture polish, and a caddy of all-purpose cleaners. From the linen closet, she selected fresh sheets--crisp white cotton for the blue room and a subtle striped set for the more modern space--along with plush towels in coordinating colors for each bathroom.

As she hauled the supplies back upstairs, Deniece felt a strange sense of purpose taking hold. This wasn't just cleaning; it was preparation, transformation. Each room represented possibilities--new energy in the house, perhaps even a friendly presence for those evenings when the silence grew too heavy after the children went to bed.

She would spend the afternoon meticulously preparing both spaces, knowing the cleaning routine would give her time to process her mixed emotions. She'd start with the windows, moving to surfaces, then floors, saving the bed-making for last--her mother had always taught her that fresh linens should be the final touch, creating that inviting hotel-room feeling. The bathrooms would need special attention; nothing would turn away a potential renter faster than a less-than-pristine bathroom.

As she plugged in the vacuum cleaner, she took a deep breath. By evening, these rooms would be ready for their next chapter, just as she was trying to be ready for hers.

******

Deniece finished cleaning just before the kids got home from school and was in the kitchen preparing snacks when she heard the front door swing open.

"Mom! We're home!" David's voice echoed through the hallway, followed by the familiar sound of backpacks dropping to the floor and shoes being kicked off.

Wendy raced into the kitchen first, her pigtails bouncing as she skidded to a stop by the counter. "Mommy! I got a gold star today for my drawing!" She proudly pulled a slightly crumpled paper from her folder, displaying a colorful family portrait with exaggerated smiles.

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Deniece said, leaning down to examine the artwork while setting out apple slices and peanut butter.

David sauntered in more casually, though his excitement was evident in his eyes. "We had a substitute teacher today, and she let us have extra recess because we finished our math test early. And Josh invited me to his birthday party next weekend--it's at the bowling alley!"

Deniece smiled, listening to their overlapping stories about playground adventures and classroom triumphs as she poured glasses of milk. These after-school moments, filled with their animated chatter, were among her favorite parts of the day--a welcome contrast to the quiet house she'd spent hours cleaning.

******

Deniece cleared away the snack dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter as the children gathered their backpacks and headed to the family room.

"Remember, homework first, then TV," she reminded them, receiving twin nods of acknowledgment.

In the family room, David sprawled on his stomach on the large area rug, math workbook open before him, while Wendy claimed her usual spot at the small wooden table in the corner. Her tongue poked out in concentration as she carefully practiced writing her letters, occasionally asking David how to spell a word for her sentence practice.

Deniece moved to the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator for tonight's meal--a chicken and vegetable stir-fry that had become a Friday night tradition. The rhythmic sound of her knife against the cutting board created a soothing backdrop as she diced bell peppers and sliced chicken breast into even strips.

She paused occasionally to glance through the open doorway, watching her children work. David muttered numbers under his breath, counting on his fingers, while Wendy hummed softly as she colored a picture to accompany her writing assignment. The evening sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room that highlighted the moment.

As she heated oil in a large skillet, Deniece mentally reviewed her rental ad, wondering when responses might start coming in. The sharp ring of her cell phone startled her from her thoughts. She quickly wiped her hands on a dish towel and reached for the phone on the counter, noticing an unfamiliar number on the screen.