Fifty shades of bland; thats what my childhood home in Sand Bay, UK has been turned into. Not many of us spend the rest of our adult lives in our childhood homes, but when we sold ours a few years ago i desperately hoped she wouldn’t be turned into some modern monstrosity. The trees my mother grew in the front garden, with her many potted flowers that bloomed in the summer — were all torn from their beds. Outside the house was painted white with black borders. It looks like they’d made some poor attempt to make it look like a Danish summer house, but the difference is that Danish homes tend to be warm and cozy — even if they are white.
The inside of the house now looks like a sad sterile hospital wing form a grotesque horror movie with too many slasher shots. It hurt my heart, i could barely recognise which room is which. The people who bought the house from us bought it to flip it, and she lost the beautiful cottage feel. I guess it also hurts because it will never be how i remember it. Her walls pulled down and her garden up rooted to look like some construction plant.
Damn, it sucks so bad. It hurt me more than i’d have anticipated, all i can say is that i bet the ghosts in that house are livid.
Has anyone ever experienced this before? Do your family still live in your childhood home?