The house we lived in…
Was a home once. A little strange perhaps, but it was my home, my place. It was full once, of
light and laughter and music and cooking smells.
And then it stopped. There were no sounds except shouting
and sobbing. And slamming doors. Things didn’t fit the way they once had, and
everything felt like it was falling apart.
Everything fell apart.
Then she moved out, and he packed his things. And I cried
alone on the floor in an empty, darkened room with bits of paper and string
stuck to the carpet, feeling helpless and furious, and embarrassed and
destitute. Because it was all over.
It ended with a quiet departure. It ended with a mercilessly
scrubbed house where no trace of them remained. It wasn’t our home. It was
never my home again.
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