My home is in a quiet neighborhood, on a back road. There’s a wide concrete driveway leading up to a nice house with a pond out front, a small wooden bus stop by the road my dad built for me when i was young so i wouldn't have to stand in the cold in the winter,a white porch with a swing on the left, it had the front door that we never used. The house is decent sized with grey siding and faded red fake shutters and a red shingled roof, the singles used to be a nice clean red but over the years now have a lot of moss and mold, there’s a lot of green and black at the top of the roof but towards the edge of the roof the shingles are red again. A chimney is visible from the road often in the winter smoke is coming from it. Up next to the house is a barn, grey with grey doors and red shingled roof. This was the place i lived the place that should have felt like home, but didn't.

  On the outside it may seem like a happy normal home, a home with a mother and a father and a daughter. Well that’s what it might look like but, it’s not. Yes i love my parents but that is a house that i just don’t feel like I belong in. It feels like anger and confusion, it’s the pain of a daughter wishing she could talk to her parents and tell them how she really felt. Its the same answer everyday when asked how my day was, “fine” . It’s the weighted answers to typical questions, every parent asks their kids. It’s the hope that things will get better.It is the house that was a home until my grandpa died the February before my tenth birthday. He had lived next door in the house that i was more at home in. That’s when the house i lived in became just a house not a home.