I cried myself to sleep the first night at my father’s house. He made it clear that I was welcome to be wherever he was, but I needed to mind my P’s and Q’s. This was, after all, his wife’s house. Not his. Not mine.
It hurt like hell. Again, I was not home. I hadn’t and wouldn’t be home ever again.
Home was in a foreign country with parents that no longer existed. I longed for a life I would never recover.