You are driving through a quaint little town. The houses are lined up perfectly along the streets. All in all, it seemed like a quiet, friendly little town. Walking down the sidewalk you notice two houses. Both were the perfect picture of the all American home. Their white picket fences, flourishing gardens, perfect lawns of lush, green grass, and benches swinging back and forth on the front porch could all be seen from the street.

As you move towards the first house you can smell the sweet scent of the roses growing nearby. You slowly walk up the steps and steps and stop for a moment to take in the sight of the perfect lawn. After one last glace, you step inside the front door. As soon as you walk in you notice the decor of the house is of exquisite taste. While you’re taking in your surroundings you hear the soft patter of footsteps behind you. You turn towards the sound and find yourself staring down at a little girl. Her blonde hair shone brightly and a little bow was adorned on the side of her head. On the couch sat a man dressed neatly in a suit and tie. From the kitchen wafted the scent of pancakes, bacon and eggs. The woman of the house was clearly making breakfast for her family; as she usually did every morning. After a few minutes the family gathered at the kitchen table and had their daily family breakfast. The mood was bright and cheerful. They talked with ease and conversation flowed without any arguments. When they were done eating they left the table to begin their day as a family; they knew they had each other without a doubt.

Walking out of the house and back onto the sidewalk you look towards the house right next door. All seems to be in order. The front yard was neat and tidy. The grass was green and the hedges were well groomed. As you walk towards the door you start to notice slight differences. The porch was littered with beer cans and miscellaneous trash. As you walk into the house the smell of alcohol hits you immediately. Things are scattered randomly about the house. More beer cans are strewn across the floor and other household surfaces. Sitting in a lounge chair in what appears to be the living room is a man. Is clothing consists of worn jeans, a stained cutoff t-shirt. It occurs to you that the beer cans thrown about belong to him, as he has a freshly opened can in hand. In what seems to be the kitchen is a woman. Her pallor is less than pale, she has multiple marks running up and down her arms that appear to be from needles, and she is skin and bones. As she is sitting in the chair you see her pull out a needle full of who knows what and shoves it into her arms. Her eyes roll back into her head as the drug takes its effect on her various bodily systems. Moving away from the neglectful mother you walk down the hallway into a small room on the left. On the far wall you see a crib and you can hear soft whimpers of a child who probably hasn't had any of its basic needs met. The child looks slightly emaciated, and very miserable. In the corner opposite of the crib is a little boy of probably seven or eight years old. He is huddled in the fetal position as if he had something to fear. As you walk towards the corner and bend down to speak to him he flinches away instinctively. You try to ask his name, but he doesn't answer. Deciding that you have seen enough of the horror hidden in this house you make your way back to the front door. On your way out you catch a glimpse of the father passed out in his chair and the mother tripping out on whatever drug she had just taken. As you leave the house you ask yourself what will become of those children. How can those people call themselves parents? You can only hope for the best.

You walk back to the sidewalk and look again at the two houses in front of you. So many thoughts are crossing your mind. But one thing was for sure, you can never judge something simply by the way it looks.