That house

Home, belonging, familiar familial memory souvenirs- prized and adored.

That’s how my offspring feel about my ‘matrimonial home.

Of course, I can with much mental effort, look back on many milestones: births, celebrations, tears, successes, film marathons, midnight snacks, sleep overs, exam results….oven chips, slaved- over -mighty -Lasagnes…

But all that I remember of their formative years are flashbacks of hiding, cowering, fearfilled minutes extending to months…hating my self, hating waking up and remembering that I still exist and am ultimately responsible. Decisions need to be made and there’s no way out. Fantasies of no longer existing that can only last for as long as I can suspend my disbelief.

I just didn’t want to be. I hated the reminders by my nearest and dearest that time will continue to march onward, regardless of me or my will. As they marched to school and I hid under the covers.

So as I drop my child at that house which now signifies My Oppression, I’m sickened to the stomach that my children still love and cherish that which I abhor. That they have their own story which I must uphold and their voice which must not be quelled as mine Was.