He obviously hadn’t ever been to my home; because, in ten years, precious little had changed. In fact, my parents hadn’t altered the décor of their house in over two decades. My bedroom was unchanged since the day I left for college. My twin bed still had the predominantly pink patchwork quilt laid on it. The cream drapes hung in the window. My dressing table still had rosettes, for gymnastics and horseback riding, placed neatly around the mirror. It was the room of an adolescent girl. So, the fact of the matter is, when I finally accepted the cold hard truth; after three months of searching for another job and desperately trying to make ends meet, I did go home again. And it was as if I’d stepped back in time. Mom and Dad professed they were happy to help me until I got back on my feet, but they were also predictably self-righteous, and I suspected it took everything within them to not scream, ‘I told you so’ from the rooftops. “Life in the city can be tough,” Mom said.
