It’s funny, almost, how it wasn’t until I decided to write this article that I realized I didn’t even have a picture of my house. Not expecting anything to come out of it, I typed in the address — 4311 Union Avenue — on Google Images, but to my surprise, nearly a handful of pictures immediately popped up. There was one taken from the side as if you were walking back from CVS, one taken across the street by Jean’s house and even a couple of aerial views — all posted within the last five days. While I was confused as to why pictures of my house were recently being posted on the internet, it was in that moment that it suddenly hit me: I was looking at a home that no longer belonged to me.
Maybe this realization shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise as it did. After all, I was first told that my family would be evicted from our home four years ago. But the thing is: it never seemed real. We never received the eviction notice, so although our mortgage wasn’t getting paid, it felt as if the whole thing wasn't actually going to happen. Or, at the very least, we knew that day was somewhere far in the future. Someday, that eviction notice would come, but for years to follow we were blissfully ignorant to the idea.
Until the other week, that is, when I was told that the eviction notice finally came. I — or, rather, my belongings — had been moved out of the home for about two years now. My oldest sister for nearly three years, my other sister for a little over a year and my dad for a year and a half. The only person left was my mom, and sure enough, with the arrival of the notice, the only thing I had connecting me to the house I grew up in was soon to be gone.
I read the posting on Realtor.com. Single-family home. Two stories. 1,596 square feet. Built in 1920. Fireplace. A "great investment opportunity," according to the website. But what about all of the other features not mentioned?
Like how this was the house that I moved to at the beginning of middle school, and how it saw more tears and moods swings than a Nicholas Sparks' film. Or how this was where I went through all of my awkward phases, from being a wannabe scene kid to an obnoxious Facebook user (using * and x3 in all my statuses) to a diehard One Direction fan, to someone who's still a little of all those things, but more subtle about it.
This was the house where I finished grade school, started high school, adopted a dog from the shelter, had my first kiss, had my sweet 16, got my license, cried when I got denied from my dream college, got accepted to the school I never expected to love, graduated high school and so many more in-between moments, both good and bad, that I can remember exactly where I was when they happened. I know everyone says that it's whom, not where, you spend these moments with that matters, but when all of your favorite scenes in your story have the same setting to them, you can't help but grow attached.
Perhaps I should be embarrassed about the foreclosure. It's not something people typically go sharing about themselves, let alone writing an Odyssey article on. But why should I be ashamed of something that taught me the importance of valuing every moment?
