This House is not a Home.

I asked him what he wanted.

He didn’t say his wife. He didn’t say his family. He didn’t say his marriage. He didn’t say me.

He said, “The house”.

That shit stung. The house had been a constant source of pain and regret for me. The house had always been taken care of; the grass cut, the deck pressure washed and stained, the garage doors replaced, trees cut down. The house was immaculate. Picture perfect. Everything was taken care of outside and inside of the house.

Except the people.

We take care of the things we love. We pay attention to the things we care about. We make time for the things we want. Unfortunately, I was not among things that were loved, cared for, or wanted. Now it’s on to the next shiny, new thing. But when you treat people only like objects, like things, like conveniences, eventually, things are all you are left with.

We can’t get so wrapped up in the appearance of life that we neglect real life. The people who make life worth living. It is people, loved ones who make a house a home.