The Home

In 2009, I visited Sydney for the World Masters Games. Its been since 1977 since I last saw the house I was raised in. It is the house my father built and the place of my abuse.
Both my parents have passed away, and I do not know who lives there now.

While driving the station wagon to the place, I was getting a bit apprehensive.
The closer I got to the place, all sorts of memories were triggered by the familiar streets and buildings, like the corner shop, the bus stop, etc.
Then I turned into the home street. All the houses looked differently. They were either rebuilt or renovated. But the place I was going too was also changed, but it wasn't.

The house was exactly untouched. It was the only house in the street that was hidden by bush. It looked dark in comparison, and it felt dark too.



It took a while before I could get out of the car to check the old place out. The driveway down the side of the house was the same, except for the air-conditioner.
There is my window. I forgot about the window pane next to it.
Gee! I wonder how the people who live there now feel about the place?



It did not take long for me to get in my car and get out of there.

In a strange way, seeing the house as it is, 30 odd years later, confirms to me that there really was something wrong in that household, and it wasn't me. It was not my fault.
I wish my father was not evil in what he done, but he was.
I am glad I no longer have to be stuck in such an environment again.