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• Chelsea Miller, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2022

It’s funny how we believe a place will stay the same forever. I guess I knew it would change, knew people would move in, maybe start a family of their own. But the reality of someone else living in our home, it makes my heart ache.

I remember the house before. With the new pale pink painted slates, which ended with us having sunburnt rosy cheeks. The large old tree, which once a year would drop its leaves all over our lawn, creating an autumn mess. The wrap-around verandah, where we would sit on old chairs and soak up the last remaining warmth of the day. I remember the smell of the house. It always smelt like her in the morning, right after her perfume was freshly sprayed and when the wind blew, it brought inside the aromas of her many colourful flowers which were planted outside. Her. Them. Us. I remember their infectious laughs filling the kitchen as they tried a new recipe, the silence as they stuffed their faces with the results. I remember our bedroom. Gothic windows ushered in a gentle breeze while later in the day, afternoon light poured through the trees basking us in dappled warmth. They would rush into our bedroom in the mornings. I could hear their delicate feet padding against the wooden floors, preparing myself for the pandemonium of giggles and good morning screams. Warm, soft hands brushed against mine while they scrambled up the bed, fighting for the best spot which was right in the middle. Seeing my wife still half asleep embracing our kids, warmed me up just like a morning coffee. Although we led a humble life, we were happy. We were so happy.

Now here I stand, all alone in the middle of a street, staring at a house that seemed like a stranger. The car in the driveway wasn’t mine. The slates, just a plain, simple white. The trampoline wasn’t ours. The flowers had been changed to a boring hedge. Where were her flowers? The kids running around playing weren’t mine, nor was the lady watching them. Here they were, living out their dream, while mine was crushed. They were living in our forever home.

I look at the old photo in my hand. Their smiling faces which could never be seen again. Their warmth and love which could never be felt. They would be so frightened, so cold and lonely. My wife. My kids. Their going made my life silent. My entire world stop spinning. If only my heart would stop beating. Then, perhaps we could live in our home again. We could be happy and together again. But that is absurd, just a product of my imagination. Instead, I'm hopelessly bound here to reality.

I look back to the new family. They look happy. Their future is bright and promising. I guess it’s alright though. When I think about it, that huge house would be far too big and lonely for one person anyway.