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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

A creative non-fiction short story walking through an old home of mine. This short story has memories and stories of my time living in the house.

Submitted: July 01, 2018

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Submitted: June 30, 2018



I walk inside the once livable house. It's cold and dark. When I walk in, I see the refrigerator that was once filled with delicious ice cream and fluffy yogurt, my favorite snacks while I was pregnant. The electricity bill hasn't been paid in months, so there's no light to turn on and no TV to play old, but still good movies. To the right of me is the living room, where we once watched N.C.I.S. as a family. My favorite part of living here was the occasional smell of homemade crescent rolls, the only thing my mom knew how to make from scratch. I loved how buttery and soft they tasted in my mouth. Sometimes she would burn them; she tried so hard to get everyone's approval and appreciation that we all would eat them anyway.

I walk down the short and terrifying hallway past my old small room. It wasn't supposed to be a bedroom at all. The previous owners shortened the kitchen and combined it with a closet before we even bought the place. I remember the funny story when my grandma and I were sitting on my old handmade bed and it collapsed on one side. It scared us but we laughed about it anyways. It’s hard to admit, but I miss her. I also remember lying in bed at night, scared of my mom dying because of how hard she would cough as she smoked her cigarettes outside in the freezing cold.

The next room I walk past is my brothers. It was once filled with cars and Legos, the only toys he ever wanted and played with. Later on, when he moved out to live with his birth parents, it became my room because it was bigger and I needed the space. Next to his room is a bathroom with an oversized tub and a handheld showerhead. In that bathroom, I curled my hair for the first time with a hair straightener I got for Christmas. That bathroom was where my sister and I would take pictures, because while we stood on the toilet we could see our whole bodies in the large mirror.

The last room in the small house, at the end of the hallway, was my parents. My dad cut a small hole at the bottom of the door so that our cats, Britney and Katy, could go in and out as they pleased. I used to hate the feeling of my dad trying to give me kisses and hugs because of how prickly his beard would feel on my cheeks. Although I wouldn't admit it to him, I miss seeing him coming home after a long day at work. I miss hearing the arguments coming from their room, because at least they were both there. I miss going to my mom about something, her saying no, and then going to my dad so that he could convince her to say yes. Things were always very hard for us; we didn't have money, we didn't always get along, and the food wasn't very great, but my dad kept things together for the kids. Sometimes people get tired of being everyone else's support system though, which I can accept.

As I walk back out of the house, I feel everything change again. I'm back to the reality that I'm a teen mom, wanting so badly to be 18 and to start my life on my own in a comfortable place that we could call home.

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