It would be a lie to say that it never crossed my mind to wish, all those months that the end of my marriage loomed, for the arrival of a new partner to replace the one I was losing. I wouldn’t have admitted it, but the desire welled up every time I contemplated how our life could possibly carry on without a full-time man around the house. A few potential candidates for future husband-hood appeared, but those relationships went nowhere. They weren’t right for me (nor I for them); also perhaps the stench of desperation reeked from me more than I realized?

No knights on horses white or otherwise showed up by the time the ex moved out, and so absolutely certain was I that the house would have to be sold that I continued to sleep on an ancient twin mattress tossed at the foot of the basement stairs. But the floor was cold and hard, I had no privacy and the kids could not be dissuaded from stripping off the sheets each and every day. “Well, maybe just for a little bit,” I conceded, once the world continued to turn even without periodic infusions of an actual salary into my bank account. “Maybe I can move to the master bedroom until it’s time to leave the house. A few months, tops.”

Then the strangest thing happened. Each month ended with a tiny bit of money left in the checking account. We continued to pay bills and eat meals mostly devoid of ramen noodles and dried beans. I found health insurance and an older, cheaper means of transportation. Even without the help of a new husband we were making it. The thought of leaving grew more and more distant.

Now nearly two years have passed, two years during which we’ve managed everyday life and periodic crises without the undue gnashing of teeth. I’ve settled into the master bedroom so completely that this past weekend was spent initiating a minor renovation project (if there is such a thing) which should improve form, function and property value for that part of the house. If it doesn’t drive me right over the edge first. Which frankly will be all but impossible to avoid. Yet even with the stress, expense and time involved, there is enormous hope in such an undertaking.

In the past few weeks my little ones have been working on learning certain facts which I think will be crucial to their preschool success, such as the spelling of their first and last names, their birthdays and even their addresses. “Where do you live, baby boy?” I asked recently, hoping to elicit a response which included street number and name and if we were lucky, our town.

Instead he shot me the kind of scornful look only a three-year-old can muster for his mother. “I live right here in this house, Mommy!” he said before turning back to his toy trucks. I didn’t push the matter because he’s right. We live right here in this house, and I feel undeservedly blessed that we are enjoying a better relationship with my former husband and enough money to keep things afloat.

It may sound like a minor achievement but to me it is nothing less than a miracle, not the kind granted by a distant yet inexplicably interested deity but one created out of only air and toil–and this kind of miracle seems to me the only kind that matters.