In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Our House.”
The house in which I spent most of my childhood years is in a suburb, near enough to the country’s capital city for weekly outings but far enough that there is enough space to dream the dream. The dream of living in the capital city itself, one day. Well, that dream is no longer my dream because things have changed so much, but I remember the wide-eyed girl who stared out the car’s windows at those tall skyscrapers and shiny glass buildings.
The house is not big, with only two bedrooms and two bathrooms but it was sufficient for my family. My mother was a stay-at-home mom (way before Pinterest and Internet, so it was a glamorous job then). She worked around the clock making sure that the house is in order, food is served and I am brought up the best way she knows. The house was well-renovated, with built-in cabinets, kitchen cabinets, built-in wardrobe and well-equipped with all the kitchen appliances that we needed. My mother tried out recipes, and did it so well. From soups to stir-frying to baking, she did it. She sewed the curtains that draped the windows. She made the tiny little dresses for my Barbie dolls.
I spent about fourteen years in that house. It was the house that I spent my childhood and my teenage years. It was our family’s house, and the way it was run partly shaped me to be who I am today. It was quiet, because I am an only child and my parents are not the boisterous type. Yet it was full of life because I had the luxury of having my parents home most of the time (my dad worked from home). The neighbours were an interesting mix and I made friends with some of their children. Sadly we do not keep in touch anymore.
It has been seventeen years since we shifted out of that house. Things have changed drastically since then. But I will always remember that house; the house with the yellow gate.