I don’t like going home. I would rather do anything but go home. If they have a club after school, I stay. A sports game, stay. Trivia Night, stay. I would do anything to keep me away from a place called “home.” Sadly there was nothing after school today, so I had to go home. I walk out of the school building and onto the cold chilly streets. I look around and watch the kids around me. Some running, some walking, some skipping as they come out of the school building. Where could they be going, I thought to myself. Work? The Mall? Out to eat? Home? That word stings as I think about it. Home? What is home? People have different definitions of home. Some people think it’s a place where you have what you need to survive. My definition of home is different. To me, home is a place where you feel loved, accepted, appreciated, and important. A home is a place where you feel comfy, safe, and happy. I started walking the way towards my house and glance back at these kids one last time. I wonder how many of them have what I define as a home.

I turn on my block and walk down the street. 166 Pittsburg Drive, 168 Pittsburg Drive, 170 Pittsburg Drive, 172 Pittsburg Drive. I stop and turn to face the front of the house. Untrimmed spotty grass in the front yard, cracks on the concrete pathway leading into the house, mustard-colored stucco peeling off the outside walls of the house, windows with cracks in it, dry dead brown leaves in the grass. I look to my left then look to my right. I sigh and walk onto the pathway leading into the house. I take out my house keys from my pocket and insert them into the door lock. It opens and I walk in.