Everyone has a home. It doesn’t have to be a house, a building made out of bricks or sod. It doesn’t have to provide shelter, or be two stories tall. A home doesn’t have to have a kitchen, or a basement, a living room, or a den. A home is just where you belong. Where you feel safe, where you can be yourself. That’s all it is. Home might be with another person, because you belong with them. It can be inside of yourself, buried deep within your soul. A home can be almost anything. Some of us have to look hard, search for years, before we find our homes. But never give up. Never give up looking for it. Because when you do find your home, there’s nothing else quite like it. All your own. Home.

I was only eight when I found mine. That’s right. Just a bucked tooth, eight year old, little girl, her face cocooned by a wild mess of fiery red hair, carting around her favorite Barbie lunch pail. That little girl stumbled upon her home one day at recess. I remember the exact moment. I don’t know how I remember. I usually have a notoriously bad memory. Maybe it was because I felt like something had changed that day, like everything had changed, but I wasn’t quite sure why. I was only eight. Only 4’ 5” when I found him. I remember how angry the clouds had looked, how they wanted so badly to cry, but managed to hold it in. I remember the chill in the air as I stepped outside, ready to go play four square with my best friend, Kenna. I’d been in a bad mood, because my apple from lunch had been sour, and my sandwich was cut in diagonals. I hated diagonals. The weather seemed to sulk along with me, mimicking my mood. I walked down the big grassy hill located at the base of the school, looking for Kenna. Goosebumps popped up along my arms, despite the gray hoodie I wore. I pulled the zipper up to my chin, trying to keep out the penetrating wind, and yanked the strings tighter. I looked in front of me and saw a soccer game going on. He was there, kicking around the soccer ball, His blond shaggy hair bouncing around as He ran. I’d never seen Him before, but as I got closer, I felt this strange sense of recognition. Which was impossible. I was sure this was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on Him. Lost in my thoughts, I almost didn’t notice when the ball came flying at me, hitting my leg with enough force to make me stumble backwards. He came bounding over, an apologetic look on His face. My bad, He says, picking up the deflated black and white ball near my feet. Up close, I could make out each of His individual freckles, speckled across His pale skin. I told Him that I wished I had freckles like His. He gave me a funny look, confused by that random statement, then shook His head. No, He replied. You don't. They draw too much attention. With that, He threw the ball back to His friends, and jogged after it. I just stared after Him. That was all I could do. But then my goosebumps started to multiply, and I had to move to keep myself warm. I ran over to Kenna, who was bouncing a ball back and forth with our friend, Bailey. I thought about what He said as I ran towards them, about how He hated His freckles. I realized then that I completely understood what he was saying. I hated my bright red hair. It was the first thing people noticed about me. I could always feel hundreds of beady eyes staring at it. All of those heavy eyes. I just wanted to be like all of the other kids. I didn’t want to stand out in the crowd. Maybe He didn’t either. Maybe He just wanted to be invisible sometimes, sick of all of those eyes on Him. And I got it. I just wanted to be normal, too. As I reached my friends, I pulled the strings on my hoodie even tighter, concealing the red curls beneath it, blending in.

Now my home’s buried in the ground. So I guess I’m buried with it. 13 inches, 12 loose teeth, and 9 years later. The weird thing is that the weather is beautiful today, unlike the gloomy day I met Him. The sun is shining, bouncing off of my bright red hair. My black dress stretches tight across my growing stomach, and I place my hands on top of it, streams of silent tears trailing down my cheeks. I pray that she will inherit His freckles, so that I’ll be reminded of Him every day. I pray that she will get my bright red hair. I pray that she will embrace them, and grow up to be strong and confident. But most of all, I pray that she will never want to be invisible.

His parents had died before He could walk, and He was placed in foster care at the age of six. He moved around a lot, from family to family, and I remember Him telling me about each of them. The Tier’s, the Huett’s, the Anderson’s, the Brinder’s. There were so many. Most of them didn’t pay Him any attention, and when they did, it was usually to insult Him. No one had wanted to adopt Him, He told me once, because they didn’t like His freckles. There were cuter kids, with flawless skin, untouched by any imperfections. There had been a couple good foster familes, or at least ones He didn’t hate. The Olson’s always gave Him a donut on Sunday, and the Peter’s would let Him watch one TV show a week. But wherever He was, there was still no one who cared about Him, no place He belonged. He was always alone. Until me.

The bullying started because of His clothes. His foster families never bought Him anything new, so He was always stuck with old hand-me-downs that were several sizes too big. He was a cute kid, funny and smart. But He wasn’t rich, and that was enough. That was enough to start the cruel remarks. Billy Thomas, the 4th grade class clown, was the first to say something to Him. He had went to school in a pair of baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a stain on the sleeve. Billy had made a joke of it, asking Him if He forgot to wear a bib at breakfast. He had just laughed it off, not thinking too much about it. But then other kids started to catch on. And catch on. And catch on. And it spread like wildfire until every kid at Willow Elementary knew that He was a poor kid with ugly clothes who should be made fun of. Billy Thomas. Even the sound of his name  twisted my heart, made me sick to my stomach. He was the start of it all.

Billy Thomas is here. Standing across from me in the cemetery, wearing a newly pressed black suit. Not a single crease or stain on it. I have the urge to go over and tackle him to the ground, start cussing him out for starting it all. But I can’t. I can’t because of the little girl growing inside of me. I’m not going to let her see that. I'm going to protect her no matter what, unlike how I failed to protect Him. I don’t listen as His foster mother gives a speech about what a great young man He was. I don’t look when His best friend lays flowers down on His coffin. I don’t feel anything when the crane lowers my home into the ground. All I can do is stare at Billy. Stare at him and hate him for starting it all.

The day that I found out I was pregnant, I drove over to the park, where He usually was. He said that it was quiet there, unlike His foster homes. He would just sit on the wooden bench and read, or do His homework, or just think. So I knew I’d find Him there. Sure enough, as I pulled into the parking lot of Hillstone park, I saw His beat up bicycle resting against a tree. He was lost in thought, watching the little kids run around on the playground, squealing with delight. He felt me sit down next to Him, but He didn’t look over at me. Instead, He just asked if I missed it. I wasn’t quite sure what He meant, so I asked Him. You know, he replied. The innocence, the carefree life of a child. I told Him sometimes, because I did. I did miss not having any responsibilities. I did miss not having a worry in the world. But I especially missed it for Him, because that’s when life wasn’t so bad for Him, when He wasn’t constantly made fun of for having ugly clothes or a rusty bike instead of a car. When He was just another kid who blended in, who was invisible. I kiss the freckle on His ear, pulling away and turning His face towards me, so that I’m looking Him in the eyes. I wish that we could go back to third grade, I told Him. Back to when there was nothing wrong in the world. I wish that more than anything. But-- I took a deep breath then, trying to hold it together for both of us. I have something to tell you, I had said. He just nodded, so I continued on. I told Him about the baby. I told Him that it was His. I tell Him that I was scared. When I was all done telling Him, He pulled me in close, and kissed the top of my fiery red head. I rested my cheek on His shoulder, and cried. Because I knew that this wasn’t what He needed right now. I knew He loved me, and I knew He would do anything for me, but He could barely even take care of Himself right now. He was barely staying afloat on His own. He told me that it would be okay, that He would be there for me. But He couldn’t hold on to that promise, because life got in the way. Life always gets in the way. And sure enough, 20 weeks later, I’m watching a bulldozer throw dirt on top of His casket.

I don’t think He really planned on it. I think that He definitely had thought about it before, but He never actually made a plan to carry it out. He was the captain of the soccer team, got good grades, was an amazing drummer.  He had His best friend, several buddies from the team, and me. But He couldn’t see past all of it. He couldn’t see past the pain of high school, the pain of the bullying. He missed His real parents, and just longed to be part of a loving family. School was bad, and so was His house. He didn’t have a save haven. He’d gone through so much in His life, and He was just tired of it all. I don’t think He was thinking about me or the baby when He was in the car that night. I think He was just thinking about Himself, about His pain. And that was enough from Him. That was enough for Him to drive off of the bridge into the stormy water beneath. One little jerk of His hands, one little turn of the wheel. That’s all it took. And now she wouldn’t have a father.

I stay there long after everyone else leaves. I sit on the cold hard ground, staring at the freshly tossed dirt, and listen to the eerie sounds of the cemetery. I can’t help but be mad at Him. I try not to be, because I know it’s not His fault, that He didn’t want this either. But I just can’t help it. He didn’t think about how this would affect our daughter’s life, or mine. He wasn’t strong enough to stand up against His foster families, or His tormentor’s at school. He just took the easy way out. But then I think about how much pain He had been in, and I can’t be mad at Him. Because He had fought. For seventeen years, He fought, but He just became too tired. All He wanted to be was invisible, to just be another kid with a loving family and a normal life. I just hoped that He was happy, wherever He was right now. Happier than He was here, with me. I lay down on top of the wet, dark earth, right above His grave, and place my hands against it, trying to feel Him underneath. I feel our baby kicking in my stomach, knowing that her Father is down there. Knowing that something isn't quite right. I close my eyes and give a sad smile as tears fall onto the ground, getting absorbed by the earth. I place the deflated soccer ball that I’d brought with me on top of his grave, thinking about that very first day we’d met. That day that he was just a freckled boy with shaggy blond hair who loved soccer. I would always carry a piece of that boy around with me, just like He carried a piece of my heart into the ground with Him. I knew one day I would find an amazing guy that I loved. I knew that we would get married, live a long happy live, and grow old and wrinkly together. But no matter what happened in my life, no matter where I went I would never forget Him. I would never forget this blond, freckled boy who forever changed me.