The Family House
I didn’t want to go. Really, I didn’t. I wanted to see my family but not at this house. Not at this far-away house, I barely remembered. You see, it was not the family home etched in my memory. No, if my family had any connection to this home it was through some obscure inheritance or a purchase made with development in mind. In either case, the development never materialized and my family spent little time in that house. I had none but the slightest, vaguest memories of it. I remember the dark rooms, the old white walls, but no detail. Now, my cousin Carly had spent more time in that house and her memories were vivid. A few years earlier, I don’t remember exactly how many, she spoke of the house in detail. Mom and I were quite taken aback at the experience she told us of but, the strangest thing was that I remembered nothing of her story except for one thing. She didn’t like the place and never wanted to return. She went so far as to encourage us to sell the house and divorce it...