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Buildings are Buildings •  Sophie Baker Leaving a home forever is hard

As I prepare to graduate college, I am discovering my parents are people. When I say this, I don’t mean I thought my parents were dogs, or wizards, or coffee tables. I mean up until this point in my life, I could only see them as precisely that… my parents.

In 1999, my mom and dad moved to the United States from Canada. After getting settled, comfortable, and married, they had me in 2003. With another baby on the way in 2006, they began to search for a city to plant some roots. After hearing rave reviews of the award-winning school district and family-friendly atmosphere, they landed on a small suburb called Fort Mill in South Carolina. It was the perfect place to build their home. We haven’t moved since.

In my childhood home I did all the things you’re supposed to do as you grow from age 3 to 21. Here, I cried over math homework at the kitchen table, crashed my bike in the yard, spent hours watching the Disney Channel, and played dragons with the neighbors. When I visit during college breaks, it feels as if I am looking at a museum exhibit of my life, with artifacts dating back to preschool. My bedroom walls are still covered in posters, tapestries, collages, photos, letters, cards, sticky notes—not an inch of the wall is visible. My closet is stuffed full of school projects, old backpacks, and homecoming dresses.

For me, this house is a suspended reality. Visiting home allows me to forget my anxieties from school and work and focus on spending time with my family. Now, as a soon to be college graduate, I have been coming to terms with the knowledge that I soon won’t be able to return to this place.

During my last visit home, my parents, my brother, and I went to dinner. As we discussed my post-grad plans of moving to Boston and my brother’s commitment to attend Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia, my parents casually mentioned that it may soon be time for them to sell the house.
“No, you can’t sell the house. I’ve spent my whole life here,” my brother protested.
“Well, with both of you moving up north there’s no reason for us to stay in South Carolina,” my dad explained.
“Your father and I moved down here for you guys,” my mom added. “Now that you’re all grown up, we need to start living our lives again.”

This sentiment dumped a bucket of ice-cold understanding over my head. Growing up, I never took the time to think about what lives my mom and dad may have led before I existed. As far as I knew, they were put on this Earth to care for me and my brother. It was easy for me to look at my parents and see two people who had all of the answers, who had figured out this ‘life’ thing a long time ago.

I reflected on our most recent visit to see family in Canada. This trip, my dad decided to pay a visit to the young family who now live in his childhood home. My brother and I teased him.
“That’s so weird to just knock on some person’s door and ask to come in,” my brother said. “Even if you did live there before.”
“Yeah, I would be creeped out,” I added.

But in spite of our teasing, my dad drove to his own cherished childhood home. The woman who lived there was—to my surprise—quite hospitable. She graciously let him in to look around, because that’s the kind of town my dad grew up in. Exploring the house with the young mother, he recounted stories from his childhood. The fireplace was no longer there, and the busy 70s wallpaper was replaced with beige paint. But he could still envision years’ worth of memories, even though the house was smaller than he had remembered it.

Sitting comfortably across from my parents at the restaurant, I now see two people very similar to me. Two people who also had childhood homes. Two people who are still experiencing new things. Two people who miss their hometowns endlessly but are determined to give their children opportunities they didn’t have. Now that we kids can handle ourselves, my parents can go wherever they want to.
“I get it,” I said, picking at the charcuterie board on the table. “The house is too big for you guys to stay there forever.”
My brother shot me a disappointed glare. I’m not helping his case here. My brother and parents continued to bicker. But I didn’t have much more to add.

Our home in South Carolina is just a building that I was lucky enough to share with the three people in front of me. I think about how I will move out after college graduation. I may stare sentimentally at my empty room and cry. I may have one last cup of coffee, gazing out the kitchen window, contemplating the mallards paddling across the pond. I may sit in my backyard, noticing how it will be the last time I experience this itchy grass. Maybe in 35 years I will find myself knocking on the door, hoping the new owners will be gracious enough to let me in. Until then, buildings are buildings, and my family is my family, and I will always get to tease them no matter where in the world we end up.

© Sophie Baker March 2025
Sophie Baker is senior majoring in English: Writing, Rhetoric, and Publication at the College of Charleston.

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