this place feels familiar.
although this is to be expected.
after all, I am standing in my father's home.
a place where I too once resided, in my infant years with him and my mother.
my mother who ripped me away.
I am aware that I sound resentful.
my mother was trying to be a saviour. a hero of sorts.
but heroes are not real.
at least not in this part of the world.
my mother stays at home.
she would rather die than come here with me.
It reminds her too much of what she has forsaken.
It looms over her and drowns her minds with what she has lost.
dad's house is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It is both homely and elegant.
random trinkets adorn shelves and faded photographs line the wall.
I ache with sadness.
this was supposed to be our family home.
I never want to leave.
but I have to.
I cannot be childish in my grief.
not yet.
I must wait.
but I will get my way.
I always do.
