For the first six and a half months of living here, I could not bring myself to hang framed pictures on the various walls in the house. Something very strong was holding me back, something with more weight than my feeling of DIY incompetence.
It suddenly hit me about ten days ago – and the shock was massive, though it shouldn’t have been.
Almost all the paintings and framed prints hanging on the walls in my old house had originally belonged to my ex-husband and his first wife. I felt as if the artistic decisions had already been made before I arrived on the marital scene. I felt, in truth, as if the vibrations and physical appearance, even the smell, of the place owed more to the previous wife, the first marriage, than it ever did to this second incarnation.
I felt sidelined. I felt as if I had no…
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