Closing the door on a lifetime of memories in my Aptos house: I’m staying in NYC for good

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It had been one year since I’d been back to Aptos. 

I had spent 12 months living alone in the house I had shared with Michael for more than four decades. But after his sudden cancer death in February 2024, I knew the only right thing for me to do was move away. 

While some may be comforted by constant reminders of their now-gone loved one, I was haunted. Michael was everywhere. And yet he wasn’t. 

When he received his cancer diagnosis in December 2023, the doctor told us he would not live long. At first, we both went into the denial phase of such a horrible prognosis. But two months later, when he was gone, I could no longer pretend it wasn’t happening. It was. It did. 

I wrote about it for this very publication. A chronicle of his illness and passing. I wrote about how before we knew he was sick, we were eager for his retirement. For adventures together. How we contemplated dividing our time between the East Coast and California. Now my adventures would be solo. 

So, a year after he died, I packed my bags and moved to the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Twelve months later, I had to make a plan for my Aptos home. It’s now worth more than 10 times the $100,000 we bought it for in 1981. I will need that money as I continue to live my next chapter in New York. 

So, I booked a round-trip flight to California and began to make lists of what needed to be done. In the weeks leading up, I had been dreaming about my return. They were disturbing dreams. Trying to get back and losing my passport. My phone. My flight being canceled. All of the things that might go wrong were, in fact, in my dreams going wrong. 

My plan was to pack up my house. And once finished I would head back to New York for good. Or for at least for as far into the future as I could imagine. 

For several days after arriving, with the help of family and friends, I sorted, shredded and bagged up all the items one acquires in 40 years. And then, it was the last day.

I was in the kitchen. I don’t know how long I stood there, but it felt like a lifetime. I recalled the day we moved in after purchasing the house with help from Michael’s family. The feeling that we had a home. And for the price of a very high-end luxury car. I never imagined a day when my life there would be over. 

Now, selling the house will be my protection. Once it’s sold, my finances will be in a much better place. I even feel a bit guilty about what the house may sell for. As if I don’t deserve what it may bring. But I don’t have the luxury of selling it below market. My home will provide a financial future as I explore my 70s and grow older on my own. 

I am doing my best to adapt to this new future. 

Looking out into the backyard, I could see Michael mowing the lawn. I watched as the mower kicked up an unexpected rock, which in turn shattered the glass in our new French doors. Michael, wearing headphones, didn’t even notice. We had splurged on the doors. Waited years to get them. I waited until the grass was shorn before I went out and flagged him down and pointed to the damage. All we could do was shrug our shoulders and laugh. 

Now the yard was empty aside from a few pieces of outdoor furniture. 

Standing in the hallway, I gazed into what had once been our daughter Kira’s room. There had been a white crib. Homemade quilts in primary colors, red hearts painted freehand under the window. Red and white curtains which danced in the breeze. 

Now it was a room with Michael’s desk, a futon for guests and an empty closet. A tall dresser, drawers empty. A few framed photos of old pals. 

This had been my home. The best years of my life were spent here. 

In the kitchen, I stood exactly where a playpen had corralled Kira and any of her small friends while I made dinner. Now she is an adult, a mom to my beloved grandson, with a life of her own in Los Angeles. The kitchen is where I would greet Michael when he came home from work. Where, during the 1989 earthquake, our cupboard doors flung open by the shaking and my dishes flew out. My glassware shattered. But the house still stood. Solid as ever.

I saw it all as if it were happening right in front of me. An unending loop of home movies. The sound of Michael’s bicycle cleats click-clacking on the kitchen floor. Michael and his buddies filling glasses with ice for their gin and tonics. The scent of fresh limes.

The long, glass-topped dining room table, chairs placed around for dinner guests, stood there waiting for another party, which would not happen. But I remember when we found the old door from the 1820s at Soquel’s Crawford Antiques and brought it home. We were determined to turn it into a place for friends to gather. We attached it to a smaller pine base and then had smoky glass cut to place on top. Too big for the space? Probably. But just the right size for sharing meals with as many friends as we could cram in.

Now, boxes stood on the floor underneath the table and books, woven rugs and Italian pottery sat on top. Waiting for someone new to take them home. 

An old Irish pine kitchen table where we ate countless breakfasts, read zillions of newspapers, where I wrote my first book, stood in the kitchen. A bent willow couch pulled up next to it.

I moved to the hallway and stood in the doorway of our bedroom. Our bed. Still covered with the woven Guatemalan spread. Our bed.

I wondered if Michael could see what was happening. I wondered if he would feel gratitude for all we shared. I told myself yes.

Michael’s brother Larry and his wife, Donna, came to help me and they were out in the driveway loading up a dumpster with odds and ends that no longer had value or purpose. Suddenly, we were moments away from completing the task. I could feel my heart breaking. I could feel the panic setting in. I could feel the best, most wondrous chapter of my life coming to an end. 

I was overwhelmed with gratitude and grief. 

I closed the door and locked it. Took one last look at the sweet Aptos neighborhood that had welcomed us four decades ago and said goodbye. There will be an estate sale June 19-21. The pieces of our life will scatter and be shared. I have an agent doing it for me. I can’t bear to do it myself. 

I try to imagine a new family settling in. New people who will create their own magic in this space. Oh, how I wish them joy. Enough happiness to balance out the challenging times which are always part of life. 

I wish them everything Michael, Kira and I had. I wish them love.

Claudia Sternbach is a writer and journalist who lived in Santa Cruz for more than four decades. From 2022 to 2025, she was a Lookout columnist. In 2023, she chronicled the sudden illness and then the February 2024 death of her beloved husband, Michael.