The Home I Grew Up In

I don't remember my childhood by birthdays or festivals. I remember it by the nights I wished would end.

I remember lying awake in bed, hoping tomorrow would be quieter than today.

I remember listening to footsteps, voices, bike horn and doors, trying to guess what kind of evening it was going to be. I was just a child, but somehow, I was always waiting for something to go wrong.

For years, I thought every home sounded like ours.

I thought every child learned to stay quiet.

I thought every family lived with the fear of another knock at the door.

That house knew every version of me.

It watched me take my first steps.

It watched me grow taller every year.

It also watched me lose pieces of my childhood that I can never get back.

I learned very early that not every knock at the door meant someone had come to visit.

Sometimes it meant another person asking for money my father had borrowed.

Sometimes it meant another argument at the front gate.

Sometimes it meant standing behind a curtain, listening to strangers say things about my father that no child should ever have to hear.

I didn't understand debt.

I only understood the silence that filled the house after they left.

I still remember my mother's face.

I don't remember seeing her rest.

I remember seeing her worry.

Every single day.

About money.

About tomorrow.

About us.

I remember watching her carry burdens I was too young to understand.

There were nights when nobody spoke during dinner.

There were nights when dinner never happened.

There were nights when I wished I could disappear into my room and wake up somewhere else.

I hated hearing people shout.

I hated hearing things break.

I hated watching the people I loved slowly become strangers to themselves.

I stopped inviting friends to my house.

I was embarrassed.

Not because our house was small.

But because I never knew what they would see if they came inside.

I became quieter.

Not because I had nothing to say.

Because home never felt like a place where words were safe.

Even now, loud voices make my heart race before my mind understands why.

Even now, an unexpected knock at the door makes me pause for a second longer than it should.

Some childhoods don't stay in the past.

They follow you.

For a long time, I thought I hated home.

I didn't.

I hated living in a place where peace always felt temporary.

People dream about bigger houses.

I never did.

I dreamed about a home where nobody was afraid to laugh.

A home where children didn't have to listen through walls.

A home where dinner wasn't interrupted by arguments.

A home where a knock at the door was just someone visiting.

A home where love sounded louder than anger.

Maybe that's why The Home I Choose means so much to me.

It isn't about building a beautiful house.

It's about giving someone else the childhood I wish I had.

I don't know if I'll ever stop carrying this house inside me.

Some memories fade.

Some become part of who you are.

I don't miss the house.

I miss the childhood I could have had inside it.