So… not to be dramatic, but I fear I am currently the main character in a Victorian tragedy written by a woman with tuberculosis and unresolved feelings.
At the beginning of May our landlord gave us our 60-day notice, and somehow it’s already the end of the month. July 1st is almost here. We’ve applied to places, gotten a couple nos, and every single rejection email feels like getting picked last for dodgeball except now there’s a baby involved and I cry over yogurt commercials.
And listen… I don’t think we’re getting that deposit back.
The backyard? The dogs basically turned it into an archaeological dig site. There’s also this evil vine that has completely taken over like it pays rent here. The back door is scratched up from the dogs wanting to be let in every seven seconds, and the floors — which were already questionable when we moved in — definitely did not leave this experience improved.
Honestly the whole house looks like it survived a minor historical event.
Most of the deposit was paid by our roommate anyway, so whatever comes back would mostly go to him, which leaves Hector and I in this weird, sad, oddly cinematic transitional era of life.
Which means… there’s a chance we might temporarily have to live apart.
Cue the sad indie music.
The current plan is maybe I go back home to Vegas while Hector stays in California working and saving money so we can eventually get another place together. And before anyone says “just stay with his family together,” girl… no. There’s already tension there, there’s a language barrier that makes me feel awkward and overstimulated 24/7, and I genuinely do not think being stressed and hormonal in someone else’s house while pregnant is the vibe. Plus there’s been this whole ongoing saga about Hector not wanting to move to Vegas, which honestly deserves its own season recap episode.
So now I’m potentially entering my “sent away to the countryside after falling pregnant” era.
Except instead of a countryside estate, it’s Las Vegas. Instead of hiding my shame, I’ll probably be eating fruit with Tajín in bed watching YouTube videos about celebrity drama while growing a tiny human.
Honestly? Maybe that’s healing.
I keep joking that I feel like one of those Victorian girls whose family quietly sends her away until she’s “dealt with the situation,” except my situation is literally just being married and pregnant in a terrible housing market.
Like sorry Father, I have brought dishonor upon the family by… being unable to afford California rent.
Anyway. Life feels very weird right now. Emotional. Unstable. Kinda scary. But also weirdly hopeful? Like maybe this is just one of those messy little in-between chapters before things get good again.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself while aggressively checking Zillow and eating pregnancy cravings that taste like pure Red 40 according to Hector.
