The Echoes of a Home That Never Was

Reconciling the longing for comfort with the reality of trauma.

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We drove past the old apartment today, my mother’s apartment. It’s been a while, but the sight of it pulls at something deep inside me. A pang. A warmth. A question I can’t quite name. The bricks are faded, the windows sagging, and the whole building seems to hunch, weary under its weight. Still, it calls to me.

Not the building itself, you know, but the memory of it. The couch, soft and sagging, where I would sink in and let the hours dissolve. The smell of lavender lotion lingering in the air, mixing with something stale that I could never quite put my finger on. Her television humming in the background, louder than anything I could say. That couch was my safe place. Or at least, it felt that way.

I’d sit there, trying to talk to her. “How was your day?” or “Did you see the clouds earlier? They looked like a horse!” Small things, light things, anything to bridge the gap. Her glazed eyes stayed fixed on the TV. “Mmhm,” she’d say, nodding absently, and I’d let myself believe it was enough. Sometimes, she’d turn to me, smile faintly, and say, “You’re so lucky to have a son. Daughters are just so much harder. Girls are just something else.” Her words slid over me like water at the time, barely registering. I’d nod, soaking up the…