Originally Posted by Ustwo

I always hated to visit my mother. Its not that I hate my mother, I love her as any son loves his mother, I guess, I just hate the house and the feeling of failure it gives me. My parents bought it back when they were my age, it was just suppose to be a starter house, something to live in until they made it big. Well forty years later, here she is still, after raising five children in the starter house. I could always tell my father hated this house, he seemed to treat every repair or upkeep as if it were a form of extortion. In the end the house won, he died of a heart attack trying to shovel the driveway after a heavy snow. I have a feeling his last thoughts were not of his children or wife, but on how much he hated this house. This house isn’t just about my parents failure at their dreams of upper middle class. It is here I found out I didn’t get into college, here that I convinced my ex-wife to first put out in the musty basement, between the canned pickles and a pile of old newspapers my mother saved for no reason I could figure out, and here that I had to move in after she left me for my best friend. He wasn’t that great a friend, obviously, but he was also my only friend. This house to me is a physical manifestation of all that sucks. I hate it more than anything, even my ex-wife.