In No Home I Reside

I used to have a perfect, loving family.

My mom always tied my hair in the morning and my dad always drove me to school. When we were doing our monthly grocery shopping, my dad always bought me some snacks and chocolate. When I was being a naughty little kid by yelling and being mad at mom , she always came to my room at night and told me that she was sorry while caressing my hair — when it was none of her fault.

I grew up moving houses. I have lost count on how many buildings my family had lived in since the moment I was born to this world.

At the age of 4 my dad bought a house in a little city an hour away from my birthtown. At the age of 7 we rent a house close to dad’s workplace. Nevertheless, I was spoiled and happy.

But things changed after mom fell sick. And she eventually passed away.

Our home is never the same eversince.

I could not recall how I felt months after mom was gone. All I could remember was being taken to a foreign house by dad only to be met by a stranger — a woman — whom dad told me to call her ‘mom’. I did not know better. I had not known any better.

Puberty was an uphill journey. I became a disobeying teenager, throwing fits and lies every now and then, even to dad. I even stole some of my parents’ money. His new wife could not take it. She could not take me. I was banished from the rented house at the age of 15 and I had to live with my grandma at our permanent residence— the one that dad had bought when I was 4.

I started losing attachment to the idea of ‘home’ and rented a house alone since high school. I used bike to go to school and sometimes I cooked my own meals — though mostly I bought it from the nearby cafe. Independence has become the word that is best put in the same sentence alongside with my name. And it went on until I attended university.

One day, my dad came to my place to introduce a woman who he said would take care of my childhood house, our permanent residence. At that time, I felt grateful. I did not know better. I had not known any better.

My stepmom, oblivious to what was happening, was residing far from the city we all dwell in. My dad had decided to bring my half-sisters and my brother to our permanent house to attend better schools.

Time unveils everything. It was then I realized that the new woman was nothing more than a mistress. A woman who had grown to love my dad and my family so fondly that she was willing to do anything — everything.

As a young adult who gets involved in relationships, I was once smitten and I got cheated on many times. Thus, I develop a passionate hatred towards cheaters. And, what could I do when my own dad is considered one? I — I chose to be apathetic.

Given the fact that I knew even the smallest details that was going on at my house, I refuse to come ‘home’. In fact, I no longer feel like I have one. I feel constantly bothered and uncomfortable to witness things, yet I know better than to vent out. It would be of no use.

They say home is where you rest after a long tiring day. But, what could I do when I am not even able to let myself feel comfortable at my own home? They say home is where your heart is. But what could I do when my heart lies nowhere?

Sometimes, when people ask me where my home is, I hesitate for a few seconds. Because I don’t know where it is.

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