I just wanted to focus on being a Mommy for a while. Without a second thought, I put my writing life on hold

My first assignment as a journalist was to cover a conference. Successful women entrepreneurs were speaking to female MBA students about work-life balance. I was in my twenties and single; the topic was important, but a mere curiosity to me.

In contrast to the hours of cleaning and cooking I do now, I cleaned my apartment once a week, and made myself quick, super-simple vegetarian dinners. On Sunday mornings, after doing a mere two loads of laundry for the week, I’d sit comfortably ensconced in an overstuffed chair, my feet up on an ottoman, as I focused intently on the New York Times, novels, or Jewish books. Looking back, I see my apartment asked very little of me.

When I met my bashert, I was thrilled to get married and start a new life. I happily packed up my apartment. After my furniture, clothing, and books were neatly loaded in a truck waiting downstairs, I rushed out. For years I regret having left so quickly that I didn’t take the time to say goodbye to a friendly neighbor.

Despite my haste, I still remember taking one penetrating last glance around at the now empty apartment. It was a corner unit, perched above a busy city street with buses whizzing by on the street below and an elevated train periodically racing by on tracks that conveniently stood a few blocks away. A clanking radiator that kept me warm in the sub-zero Chicago winters had welcomed me home. The image stayed lodged in my subconscious ever since.

Although I remember returning my keys and receiving my security deposit from my genial landlord after my husband and I were happily settled in our new apartment, in my dreams, I held on to one extra key.