It wasn’t a big house, by any means, and certainly not a house that stood out in the rows of identical, cream-white strips that lined the streets.
The windows were tinted black, and at the age of twelve, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, and nor was I the sharpest tool in the box. I didn’t know what wall-paint meant, and I didn’t titter over the fact that my bedroom (one I still shared with my mum) was always clean in the morning, and in shambles by the time I turned in for the night.
There were four rooms there, though two of them weren’t used for the purposes their furniture stated. One was a bedroom-turned-playroom-turned-study. And the other was a bedroom that was used when that odd blue moon rose instead of our usual one.
The kitchen was small, cramped, and always in use. There’d always be someone in there, be it making a drink, preparing lunch, actually cooking lunch, or heating leftovers up. Surprisingly, I’d never noticed the gas stove running out. Though in more recent years, I’ve been more than prone to seeing these things happen.
It may not have been a big house to many, but it was always bursting at the seams, always happy, and always full.