I’d never expected my parents to move out of our house— it hadn’t occurred to me that it was even an option to leave that house
I remember the day I found out we were moving. I was in the middle of my second year in Israel, on the cusp of adulthood and independence. My parents called to tell me that we would be moving out of the home I grew up in. I would be returning at the end of the year to a house I’d never seen.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d never expected my parents to move out of our house — it hadn’t occurred to me that it was even an option to leave that house. And yet, they were leaving, packing up my room and my siblings’ rooms, boxing up 21 years of collective memories.
I cried that day. The change was arriving hand in hand with my entrance into adulthood and the next stage of my life. All of the change was unwelcome. I wanted to hold on to the last remaining bits of childhood, and I wanted my room, our kitchen, the familiar smell, the safety of the only place I had ever called home.
Create a free account to keep reading.
