My childhood home🏡

Every time I think about my childhood home, the same memory always comes to mind: My sister and I playing in the living room full of toys one afternoon after school.

Well, dear Silver Blogger community, I'm 28 years old, and I always thought this community was geared only towards people older than me. But after reading about the contest @hive-106316/the-silverbloggers-chronicles-prompt-41-the-home-where-you-grew-up-in" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">The Silverbloggers Chronicles - Prompt #41 - The home where you grew up in I thought: Wait a minute, if you have a story to tell about that.

The thing is, I'd lived in the same place my whole life, until one day, when I was 18, I had to move.

My parents had separated, there were a lot of arguments... In short, it's not a pleasant part of my life, nor one I want to go into detail about.

What I can tell you is that I moved. I spent three years away from home, the house where I had spent my childhood and adolescence.

I was facing the unknown.

There were good things, like developing a great love for growing flowers. All thanks to one of my coworkers who gave me some seeds. And I went crazy, completely crazy about flowers.

To the point that I filled everything with flowers.

There were other things too. I wasn't comfortable, I didn't have a comfortable, safe place, where I could at least have some privacy. It was very hard.

I ended up sleeping in the same bed with my sister, also without a fan. We were roasting like chickens in the Anzoátegui heat. And we faced what all children of divorced parents face: splitting our time between our parents.

In our case, it was tough. We didn't have a very good relationship with our father. Little by little, over those three years, we built one. To be exact, over two of those three years.

Dad helped us get a fan because I was working, but it was a time of crisis, and what I earned was only enough to live on.

Then, Dad got sick and passed away. Before that, he gave me the deeds to the house where I spent my childhood and adolescence.

My sister and I moved into our house. We lived here alone for a while.

Now we're still in our house. And this is where something curious happens.

The trees weren't small anymore; now they covered a large part of the yard. Dad told us he had spent those years taking care of them so he could leave us a forest.

We didn't do nearly as much in the yard as we do now. Now there are trees with all sorts of fruit to pick and process.

You can sit and listen to the birds sing as they fly back and forth across the yard.

Our house, on the other hand, hasn't changed much; it's still the small house where we grew up. Someday, when my income improves, I plan to make some necessary changes, and others just for personal taste.

For now, it's still the house where I grew up, surrounded by books that were scattered all over the living room floor when I was in high school, with my mom helping me study, all to do my homework because back then there wasn't the internet like there is now.

The living room where we used to gather to watch TV. I'd stay up late watching documentaries on channel H2 when I first became an adult and we had cable.

The kitchen where we cooked every day, where I'd chat with Mom while she cooked, or that memory of Dad's last day at home, washing dishes at the sink.

So, as you can see, this house holds many memories. In a way, it's hard for me to think about leaving someday because my family's memories are here, and my whole life's worth of memories.

However, I know that one day I'll have to go and explore the world. When that moment comes, it will still be my home, only I'll carry those memories with me.