It wasn’t much to look at. It wasn’t big or extravagant, neither did it boast bright pretty colors that attracted the eyes and pulled in the senses. It was the nastiest shade of pastel pink that I had ever seen, It was less of a pink and more like the white washed version of it. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Built nicely on a half acre of land, which was overgrown with trees and shrubbery, that home was my comfort blanket for the next five years.
After my father and stepmother got married, we immediately became a family of five. Blended and awkward and trying to live with each other. It was tough those first few years, with five children and two adults living in a small two bedroom house. Everybody making sacrifices, complaints and telling on each other. Sometimes I wished that I was an only child, so that all my parents’ love would be showered on me, I wasn’t the first, last or middle child for either of my parents. however, I was that weird child that was stuck somewhere in the mix, who couldn’t act too childish since I wasn’t the baby, but had to respect the others who were older than I was. I was stuck. Living, breathing, existing in that 20×10 cramped pink house. wishing that I had a space that I could go to be alone. I wished so bad that I could be alone. Without brothers and sisters who wished that I didn’t exist either.
But, I couldn’t choose where and with whom I lived no matter how much I wished, I couldn’t wish my parents back together,bring about world peace or stop worldwide hunger. It just was. Blaming that house, those people, wouldn’t change anything.