“They Called It A Home“

“They Called It a Home”

They called it a home.

But it never felt like one.

Not to me.

To everyone else, we looked normal. Maybe even perfect. Clean house. Decent clothes. Smiles in public. But behind those walls…

God, it was different.

Love came with conditions.

If I got good grades, if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t make mistakes—then maybe they’d look at me with something close to approval. Not love. Not pride. Just… less disappointment.

I don’t remember hugs. I remember cold silences.

I remember being called “too sensitive” when I cried and “too lazy” when I was exhausted.

They made me feel like I had to earn their affection.

But no matter what I did, it was never enough.

Sometimes I wonder—was I really that hard to love?

Or were they just that incapable of giving it?

The damage wasn’t loud.

It didn’t leave bruises you could see.

But it made me question my worth, every single day.

It taught me to hide my feelings, to second-guess my instincts, to apologize for simply existing.

Even now, I carry that weight.

In relationships, I flinch when people raise their voices, even if they’re not angry.

I overthink every word I say, every move I make.

And sometimes, I still catch myself waiting—waiting for someone to say, “You’re doing great.”

Waiting for the love I should’ve gotten without begging.

But I’m tired of waiting.

I’m slowly, painfully, teaching myself that I wasn’t the problem.

That I was a child doing their best.

And they… they were the adults who failed me.

This isn’t a pity story. It’s a survival story.

Because I’m still here.

And one day, I’ll build a home that feels nothing like the one I came from.

A real home.

With warmth.

With peace.

With love that doesn’t need to be earned.