Broken

By: Steve Brownlee

Photo by Taylor Brandon on Unsplash

I didn't know I came from a broken home until someone told me years later. To me, it had just been... well... home.

It wasn't pretty; it was old and more patched together than built, but it was still home. But then I realized they hadn't meant my house, they meant my family. They were talking about my dad who had long suffered combat flashbacks and alcoholism, my mom in her constant false happiness...and my distant, broken spirited brother...but I guess we were a lot like our old house in ways; beaten, badly patched, clearly a breath away from collapse, but by God's grace still standing and still held together.

Broken home? Na...just...just weathered.