Last night, my dad and I took a drive to the house where I grew up. They’re in the process of fixing it up, and Dad wanted me to see the progress that’s been made.
From the front yard, it’s the same old house, with some torn up roots and a new paint job. Walking inside, though, I hardly recognized it.
Where was the window I used to climb through when Ricky and I got locked out of the house? Where was the tiny pink bathroom that I used to pretend was my own secret haven? Where was the laundry area where I taught my grandparents to play mahjong?
It probably didn’t help that just the other day I had looked through my old photo albums, so my childhood home was fresh in my mind.
Everything has changed, my dad explained, proudly giving me the tour. The bathroom is now the master bedroom. My bedroom is now a bathroom. There are new hardwood floors, new windows, new cabinets. Everything is new.
I imagine it might be a dream come true for a couple just starting out—or even for my parents beginning their early retirement, but for the little girl inside me, it was a little bit heartbreaking.