A Home is Not a House

Thud! I dropped my suitcase and a puff of dust circled in the air. I examined the room. All I saw were 4 gray walls and my lumpy, springy bed. I started to think about my new home. The first thing I thought of was that it wasn’t a home, not my home, it was a house. In this house, there was no love, no joy, no time. I thought of how this house was like a prison that separated me from all relationships. I thought back on the conversation I overheard my parents having last night. They had a long conversation about money and renting. There had been a lot of tears. Suddenly, I heard a jolly, carefree laugh coming up from downstairs. I got up and crept to the door. Opening the door a crack I could hear their voices clearly. “I wonder if we can choose what it will look like,” my Mother was saying. “Well, if we can, I’m going with a better room for our daughter,” my Father said. “Speaking of our daughter,” said my Mom, “we should tell her we’re moving to a new house!” “Not a house,” my Dad corrected, “a home!” “Habitat for Humanity is the best,” Mom gushed. I shut the door and tried to contain my excitement. No more rent. No more sadness. Less stress, more time. 3 months passed by and I was in our new house! My room had a desk, it was purple, my favourite colour. It had stuffies on the bed. My room, my home. I hugged my parents and said, “You know, I finally feel at home!”