The movers stormed the house like a SWAT team, dismantling large pieces of furniture as if they were LEGOs. They loaded all our earthly belongings into a giant truck then drove away. And just like that, we were de-homed.

An hour later, my husband, DC, and I are outside an ice cream stand stress-eating ice cream because that’s what you do when your world is upended. It’s sort of working but doesn’t change the fact that we are in limbo, and we will be for weeks. Maybe, it occurs to me, forever.

“Every single thing we own is not where it was a week ago,” I say to DC, trying to put words to the upheaval I’m feeling while I sneak my plastic spoon into his salted chocolate caramel, “and it’s not where it’s going to go,” I say. “In fact, I don’t even know where it’s going to go.” My breaths are

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