Last month, my family and I embarked on a road trip – part celebration, part adventure, and, for me, a deeply personal nostalgia tour through New England. We headed north on I-95, eventually winding our way onto the scenic Merritt Parkway, its canopy of trees just as breathtaking as I remembered. I was behind the wheel, making wrong turns; some things never change. Our destination: my childhood home in Stamford, Connecticut. I had not set foot there in decades.
I was born in that house. Lived there for 18 years. Laughed, cried, learned to drive, discovered who I was. It was the backdrop to every formative moment. My father, an electrical engineer with a knack for home improvements and hydraulic wizardry, once solved our chronic basement flooding by regrading the driveway and installing a system of pumps. HGTV would have been impressed. It was also the place where, tragically, he passed away – on the staircase between the second and third floor, victim to a sudden heart attack.
My parents had renovated every square inch of that house. Bathrooms, kitchen, a laundry chute straight out of a 1950s sitcom. My attic hideaway was my personal reading sanctuary. And the basement? Party central. My mom, a math teacher by day and theme party mastermind by night, hosted elaborate birthday bashes with me as her eager assistant. Lucky 7, Las Vegas Night, Olympics. I took home the gold medal at my own Olympic party, and not to brag, but here we are, at my sister’s too. Competitive genes run deep.
When we pulled up, I braced myself for a wave of sadness. But what I felt instead was pride. The current owners—parents to four rambunctious kids—bought the home seven years ago from the folks who bought it from my mother 18 years prior. They invited us in without hesitation, and I became an impromptu tour guide, regaling them with tales from every nook and cranny.
They had transformed the house with care and style. The carpets were gone, revealing hardwood floors I never knew existed. The bathrooms had been renovated; the attic was now closed off. The quirky kitchen cabinets my dad had designed to spell his initials were replaced—but replaced beautifully. It was not my house anymore, and that was okay. Because the magic was not in the beams or tiles. It was in the living. And this family was living well.
Standing outside afterward, I glanced across the street and asked, on a whim, whether the family who lived there when I was growing up still did. To my astonishment, their daughter bought the house from her parents. I was floored.
I knocked on the door, and when Cynthia answered, we both gasped – instant recognition after decades. She welcomed us inside, introduced us to her husband and son, and we spent hours catching up like no time had passed. She reminded me how she first learned about kosher from us, and I shared how her house was the first place I ever saw someone drink milk with a hamburger. We laughed, reminisced, and marveled at her stunning backyard—somehow even better maintained than her mother’s legendary garden. Later, she sent me a photo from one of her childhood parties: there I was, standing behind her in a red dress and white-capped sleeves, the very picture of 1970s wholesomeness.
From there, we journeyed to Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts—my alma mater. It is where I first tasted independence, wrestled with critical thinking, and survived the unglamorous jungle known as communal dorm living. We visited East Quad, my freshman-year residence: 16 girls, one functioning shower, three sketchy toilets, and a single landline phone. My family was visibly appalled. My son, soon starting at FAU, turned to me wide-eyed and said, “You lived here willingly?”
Yes. Yes, I did. Because it was not about the dim lighting or creepy low ceilings. It was about the people. Smart, passionate, hilarious girls from all walks of life, thrown together in a strange stew of youth and possibility. We bonded over bad dining hall food, broken hearts, late-night debates, and dreams we were not sure would ever come true.
That evening, we met up with Lisa, one of those college soulmates. We had not seen each other in decades, but the moment she walked into the restaurant, we cried. Neither of us are huggers, mind you, but there was hugging. Our families clicked instantly. We had lived hundreds of miles apart but led parallel lives—both lawyers who prioritized motherhood, both raising tennis-playing sons interested in business, both naming our boys after the fathers we lost.
We got together the next day as well. And somewhere in those hours of laughter and shared memories, it struck me: places matter, but people matter more.
I have told my kids for years that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. This trip proved it. My family had followed me on a journey through memory lane, and instead of just indulging my nostalgia, they participated in it. They saw where I came from, and by extension, who I am. And I got to relive it all – this time, with the people I love most at my side.
Ilene Brookler, a Boca Pointe resident and Columbia Law School graduate, brings over 30 years of litigation experience to her role as a certified mediator. She founded Family First Divorce Mediation Services with the goal of helping families navigate divorce quickly and affordably. She can be reached at [email protected]. For more information, visit http://www.familyfirstmediate.com.
