Upon my arrival to my parents house. I began to ponder in my head as to whether or not I should have told them I was coming. I stood there for a while observing the house, that seemed to be the same as I left it years ago.
I tried to put a curtain over the emotions I felt when I saw my father open the door. However I couldn't distract the sound. The cast members in my head were heading a bicker between themselves. His eyes looked just as dead as before when he asked, "where is the girl?"
Suddenly all the joy I felt turned to something else as I responded, "I didn't bring one. But aren't you happy to see me?" .

He opened the door. The house was silent, just like the day I came out of the closet, the day I broke the piggy bank. The only difference was the silence was optional. Much less so my Father and I weren't fond of small talk.
My mother watched television in Attempts to not talk about "where a the girl?". I thought things changed but I was wrong.
I felt swallowed by the room as the anxiety began to choke me as I moved back in time to when they would send me to churches, ritual Masters and therapists. The harmful treatment and constant disbelief.

Once again I left, having thought that one day my family will be there for me. Learning things the hard way. Once again I could remember how good it is to live within my own solitude.

© Staircase