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THE NARRATIVE ARC
A Bittersweet Goodbye to My Childhood Home
I embrace change, so why can’t I let go?
My parents just sold my childhood home and are moving three hours from my hometown in the suburban Baltimore-DC area. I know it’s the right move — their spacious property is too much for them to handle any longer, they need to downsize, and my sister lives less than two miles from the house they’re in the process of purchasing.
I also want to throw up.
I haven’t spent more than a few months in my hometown since I first left for college. I’ve lived longer away from my native stomping grounds than I spent creating memories there. But returning to the family home at the bottom of a cul-de-sac feels like my anchor. No matter where I am or how long I live elsewhere, I think of my childhood residence as home.
Yes, “home is where the heart is,” and my heart is with my people, not the property my parents have owned for over forty years. Nevertheless, the thought of our house belonging to someone else pierces my heart in unexpected ways.
In my preschool years, the thought of leaving the security of my parent’s embrace terrified me. As I grew older, Mom and Dad often shared a hilarious tale of these forgotten fears to anyone who would listen. Friends…
