She loved her old rundown San Francisco townhouse, its leaky roof, nonexistent AC, and broken doorknobs; she loved her almost broken microwave, the way it pittered and pattered every single time she turned it on, she loved her broken faucet, the way it would take 30 seconds to turn on and then take 20 minutes to heat up, she loved her almost broken home, "if it ain't broke don't fix it." Her ex-husband used to say that with his big spray tan covered head, excepting things to be done for him left and right, he wants Cheetos, not the puffy ones but the hot ones, that's the one; she looked up to the big hole in the roof which came from the time he threw her fourth son's phone into the second floor bathroom because he was using it on the toilet; it left a huge dent into the blue-green wooden floor so every time she took a shower some of the water would drip through the dent; even though her ex died at 37 from bowel cancer, she was always a grateful, hardworking, mother of six with a weekly set of dip nails, fully extended eyelashes, and a new pair of knee high boots she was truly happy; her ex always saw her as a mighty woman but lazy and stubborn; she walked over to the window the shudders outside were about to fall off when her youngest son said,

"I love you, mom but I need that pencil back."

She looked at the mechanical pencil and clicked the back of the pencil for a few seconds, before giving it back to her youngest son, he suddenly looked at her for a few seconds, the feeling of happiness between them was long gone now, washed away by past memories of his father and the constant reminder of him because of the atmosphere they live in, yet her son did not care about the old home, he felt like she could do better, better with her time and care on the house, better with her feelings, better with her spending, if she can afford knee high boots how can she not buy a new home, and better with moving on. Both of their reminiscent gazes lasted a bit, perhaps for an entire minute, when her son finally grabbed the pencil and walked off; he got to the of the hallway and watched his mother for a few moments, she was still staring at the dent in the roof, he took a few more glances at his mother, she was perfectly content with the old broken home, with the old memories, with the broken appliances, her son always wondered:

"Why don't we move out?"

She slowly looked away from the dent in the second floor, it started to drip, her gaze shifted over to her son, the son who always questions her every decision,

"Because I said so,"

"I don't get it, it's time to move on,"

There was a moment of complete silence.

"this house is filled with memories and we all need to let it go,"

She didn't want to let the memories go, she still loves her ex.