Sweet freedom whispered in my ear

So I have a job offer.

The catch?  The start time is revolting and I’d have to leave my house at *shudder* in the morning.  I need help.

The housemate, also my ex and the father of my son, says that he will help — including being willing to get to my place at 3:30am two to three times a week, depending on my schedule.  He has given his word.  (There’s someone reading this whom I would like to note this and pass it on.  He has given his word.  I want this marked, as it’s my way of getting out of this house and making sure that both of my children are safe.)
This means that I am about to have my freedom back.  I will have my own space back.  My own dishes.  My own silverware. A dishwasher.  My own dining table and chairs.  My daughter can have her own new bed, and it can be a bunk bed if she wants one (I think she might.)  I can actually get myself a real bed, a headboard and footboard and such.  I can have my pretty key cabinet hung up again, and my own sofa and I can get a wineglass cabinet to actually have my collection of pretty wineglasses on display.

My children can have their own rooms!  And I can set up routines and decorate exactly as I please and I can probably paint the place if I want (as long as I repaint anything weird before I move out) and holy shit I can have central heating and air again.  (I admit it, I’m a modern chick.  I love camping, but I do like my central air and heating to come home to.)

Oh… this is too marvelous to think about, and I’m afraid to think any more because it might vanish, but I want it documented that it’s within reach right now!

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