The last time I held my father's hand,
he broke my ring finger unapologetically.
I tried to talk to the doctor about it but it ended in my mother
slamming her wedding ring to the ground and the exam room stuttering into a silence
that shattered my ear drums.
Distant songs began to leak through the cracks in the foundation of my childhood and our house bled hollow screams and echoing slaps.
I was 7 then.

I was 8 when I realized that not all houses were homes
and that not all Fathers were Dads and that not all scars were physical.

Almost a decade later, I am in a sickly green room
that belongs to a boy with eyes as bright as the sun
and hands that are so different from those that broke mine 10 years ago.
He tells me he loves me and for a second, the screaming stops and the songs fade.
I still flinch when he lifts his arms to reach for something,
and I still have trouble holding hands,
but the cracks in my foundation feel a little more filled.

I was 8 when I realized not all houses were homes.
I was 17 when I learnt that sometimes, arms feel more like home than 4 walls and a roof ever will.