The house across the street.

I had just turned nine when we moved into what would become our ‘family’ home in 1993.  At the time, it was just my mom, step dad, and myself, until they got married the following year and then my brother came along in 1995.

Since we were new to the neighbourhood, we didn’t really know anyone so we were essentially strangers on our own street.  Prior to the move, I was excited about where we’d be living because it was known across town as the ‘cool’ neighbourhood, although it was vast in size and some areas of it were nicer than others. Our street fell somewhere in the middle — not littered with fancy, rich suburban houses with swimming pools or trampolines in the backyard like some of the other streets — but with 1970’s exteriors that had been  updated and mid-sized front and backyards that were comfortable for kids to play in.  It was — and still is — a welcoming, friendly street that has evolved over time while remaining authentic and nostalgic, the way childhood streets and homes do, except for one house.

Continue reading “The house across the street.”

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