I hate it here. I’m exhausted from marching in a parade and from dancing in front of an audience. I cried all afternoon because my evening plans were ruined. My eyes hurt, and I’m not in the mood to humor anyone. I hate it here.

It smells funny. I don’t care how many candles he lights, the whole place smells like old fruit and old people. The carpet is crunchy and uncomfortable. The lighting is poor, and I can’t connect to the Internet.

It isn’t home. Home was the house, with hardwood floors, thick area rugs, and the familiar no-scent smell of myself. Home was warm spring nights, barbecuing, green grass beneath my toes, and a swing set happily assembled by my ­father on many long, hot days.

Home was snowy Sundays sledding in the park. Home was hot chocolate in a thermos for me and coffee for him. Home was wet pants and a warm heater; home was steak for dinner after an exhausting day of snow fun.

Home was holidays – caking on white face paint for Halloween and painting faux-Easter eggs. Home was lighting a menorah and reciting prayers. Home was Valentine’s Day – waking up early to open red boxes and pink bags.

Home was nine months waiting for my sister. Home was two smiling girls, holding our father’s hand. Home was jumping up and down, begging to hold her. Home was tickles and TV, late at night or 8 p.m.

Home isn’t supposed to be torn apart. Home isn’t the surprise over dinner, tears in my rice. Home isn’t running from the table, screaming at my mother. Home isn’t my father packing his bags and leaving. Home isn’t my sister confused, scared because I am crying.

Home isn’t carefully walking up a funny-smelling staircase. Home isn’t seeing the ugly kitchenette and wishing for last year. Home isn’t a father aging ten years in three months.