This is hard. Coming home. Coming home to the smells, the creaks of the house. It feels like my dad has died all over again. Seeing your old shoes on the floor that weren't important enough to take with you, but are now so precious to me I won't even touch them. Your dressing gown, that still smells of you. I don't know why I even lifted it to my nose... I knew how it would make me feel. Coming home, to this home, the home where we took our baby home for the first time. The home we came home to when we went on holiday: how refreshed we felt, how in love. The home where we first kissed. The home where you first made me cry, the home I cry in now.
Now, the home that you left us in. The house, just a house, that you've deserted us in.
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