A house a home does not make.

Geert Mul Nuclear family
Image by Ronald Deventer via Flickr

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.

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