My Own Home

“I have never understood when people talked about the comfort of their own home.  I was never comfortable in my house and was barely comfortable at my friend’s houses.”  I sat back in my chair and looked down at my hands. I was still unsure of how this conversation was going to go. 

I wasn’t sure what everyone around me would say or how they would respond.  I had never been so open about my childhood before and had no experience on what people would react. I had practiced exactly what I wanted to say and how I was going to say it, but now that the time was here, I was messing everything up. 

“Growing up, I never invited my friends over citing reasons of mainly that my father worked the night shift.  When he had a job, he sometimes worked the night shift, but would get fired the first time he got intoxicated.”  I found myself continuing to talk about my father when nobody spoke up.  It was almost like I couldn’t control my mouth once it finally started dishing the dirt on my father. 

When everyone continued their silence, I finally got enough courage to look up from my hands to gauge their reaction.  Would I be supported?  Picked on?  Would I be able to eat in peace? My mother had fallen asleep and my grandfather was glaring at me. I knew all of my effort, planning and hopes for a better future was now in jeopardy. 


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