I love coming home to my empty house.

I used to come home to a complete mess with ex#2 sitting in a ring of trash blaring reality tv garbage at all hours. I'd work 60 hours a week and then spend most of my weekend trying to keep the house from looking like an episode of hoarders. The sink was always full of dirty dishes. The stove always looked like something had exploded on it. The floors were always gritty, etc. I'd clean everything and have it looking good Sunday night. By Monday evening she'd undone most of it.

I don't miss that one damn bit.

My home is clean. I display the things I like to look at, and the temperature doesn't yoyo up and down wildly. Ex#2 was always turing it way up, then way down. When it didn't come down fast enough, she'd turn on the AC in the middle of winter. She'd forget about it, go somewhere and I'd come home to fine it 50 degrees in the house. I'd turn the heat back on, set the thermostat and try to relax. She'd come home and the process would repeat.

I felt more lonely and hopeless when I was married than I ever have since.