I have a house and I have a home. My home is where I grew up, where memories were made. I took my first steps, on the cold hard wood floors. Built pillows forts in the living room, and cuddled on the couch with the beloved blanket “greeny” while sick. My home was the place I learned how to read, was taught right from wrong, and cried when I was upset. The place I could return to after a long day and know my loving family would be there waiting for me.

Then,  my family divided and there were 2 waiting for me instead of 3. My parents got divorced and my dad moved into a house of his own. I live at my dad’s half of the time, but it still doesn’t feel like a home. It has been 8 years, but it remains just a house to me. The walls are full of pictures of me when I was young, but they have been hung by someone who didn’t watch me grow up. An outsider looking in tries to share the life we had. The hard wood floors, are cold, but they are not the place of my first steps. I learned how to be traded off between each house like a playing card. Fought over by my parents like my life was a giant game of tug-of-war. This is my house, but it will never be my home.