When they were roughly my age, my parents saved just about enough money to buy a new Lada Samara car. Then someone told them they were selling some land where they could build a house. So, they bought the land – having absolutely no clue about construction. It took them a long time. A really, really long time. And then, sometime in 1998, we moved in. It was summer and we had just returned home from living abroad for four years. The place was empty so we slept on some provisional beds placed in the soon-to-be kitchen. We washed dishes in the bathroom and lived so for a few months. It was awesome.
Today, our house is a place of memories. My old room is full of mementos that help me to cling on to moments whose proof of former life lives only there. Old clothes that still fit me, but my life from that time doesn’t. CD’s notes passed during class, journals, teddy bears, candid snapshots stuck to the walls… You name it.
However, most recently, it has become the home of our family’s precious memories. The place where we had our annual picnics, the place where we were last happy. And together. Things will never be the same again and I guess that is how life goes. No family is perfect and we can never expect it to be. And sometimes the people that hurt you the most are your brothers or sisters – the ones who should love you unconditionally.