The first time I went back to the small cottage where it had happened, the most overpowering feeling was nostalgia. Although I’d left when I was just two and a half, I remembered the big trees, the green kitchen and the bathroom next to the laundry where my mother bathed me.
Maybe my age at the time of the attack helped, or maybe I had more good memories there than bad. Either way, the colours were drab and the walls plain, but it felt like a home that I’d once known.
It was 20 years to the month from when we’d left the cottage and my Dad and I had been talking about going back for a little while. The anniversary visit wasn’t intentional, we just had some spare time during the holidays.
After reading things in books and on online support groups, I’d expected some type of negative reaction; fear, chills, perhaps a memory. All I felt was a vague sadness at the state of the cottage, with no obvious upkeep over the years. The one thing that surprised me was the position of the stove. In my memory it had been by the window. My father assured me it had always been against the wall.
The second time I returned to the cottage was seven years later, this time with a journalist. The overwhelming feeling was happiness. This time, the dated colours were gone and the cottage had been renovated, repainted and refreshed. The walls were crisp whites, the rooms open plan, accents of purple and green bringing spring colour into the house.
New people lived in the cottage and it felt airy and young and loved. It felt like a home, one with no real memories for me, other than the trees outside. It felt like a forgotten piece of my past that someone else had taken and made into something beautiful.
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