For some, home is where they grew up. For others, it’s the place they feel safest. I’m a part of the latter group.
The houses I spent my childhood in were never where I wanted to be. I didn’t feel safe under the ever-oppressive controls of my father, and they leaked into even the most seemingly insignificant minutia of daily life. His self-appointed, but “divinely ordained,” all-encompassing authority made walking on eggshells a normal part of daily life for his wife and kids.
There has always been a safe place to retreat from that though: my grandparents house. It has never been a perfect house, but it was welcoming and comfortable in all its imperfections – and it still is. This is my home – as it always has been, and forever will be…