by Amber Gaye

Created on: March 07, 2009   Last Updated: March 13, 2009

After my divorce, I was homeless, jobless, and the mother of a beautiful baby girl. Being a mother made me extremely driven; it wasn't long before I had secured a good paying job, and then an apartment. I began to climb back up the socioeconomic ladder. Then, a few years later, I discovered that I was going to have another baby. This time I was blessed with a wonderful little boy.

If I was driven before, it was doubly so now. I had to provide for two children now; I was both excited and scared. That was when I lost my way; I foolishly listened to others who seemed to know what was right for my family, rather than listening to my own heart and my children. I listened when distant relatives and near strangers told me, "You can't raise a family in an apartment." and "An apartment was fine when it was just the two of you, but now..."

We hear so often, everyday it seems, that the American dream is to own your own home. The suggestion has infected our collective psyche, making us believe that if you live in an apartment, you are somehow not a worthy American. Subsquently, I believed that unless I secured a mortgage, my family was somehow less than real, or destined for failure.

I wanted so very badly to provide for my children, to give them what everyone else thought they should have. Not just a loving home, but a house with a mortgage and a yard. I picked up all the over time I could get, stashing away each and every spare dollar I could squeeze from my budget. I was a woman obsessed, and for that I am dearly sorry.

I still remember my daughter crying because I had to work so much. I recall explaining that I had to work all the time so she could be happy...how sick is that? Then, after several insane months of scrimping and saving, and endless hours at work, I bought a house; it was a red ranch with three bedrooms and two fireplaces...a beautiful custom home. It even had a large back yard with a swing set. Too bad the yard was always empty.

I worked so long, and so hard to get (and keep) a house for my children, that I took away their Mother. Working 65 hour weeks as a single parent was devastating. I rarely saw my children, and when I did, I was too tired and cranky to be much of a mother. Even a decade later, I cry when I think of all that I missed, and what I stole from my children.

I never forget that time in my life, nor do I allow my children to forget. I want them to learn from my mistake; nothing is more important than time. Time spent with those you love is beyond priceless; I don't think we have words to describe just how precious it is. I constantly remind my children that if you have to work so hard for your house that you're never there, then the cost is just too high...you're paying in more than money. I paid for my first (and last) mortgage using the currency of love and my children's youth.

Today, I live in an apartment. I may no longer have a big yard, but my balance sheet is full of love, laughter, and the affection of my children. Shouldn't that be the real American dream?

Learn more about this author, Amber Gaye.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.