The House That BrokeMe

Sometimes a song finds the pieces of your childhood you learned to hold quietly. Because of You has always been one of those songs for me — the kind that puts words to the wounds you didn’t know how to name yet. If this story touched something familiar in you, this song might echo it too..

The Night Everything Changed

I don’t remember much about my childhood home — not the rooms, not the furniture, not even the way the light fell through the windows.

What I do remember is the night everything changed.

He was still in the house when they came for him.

The sound of footsteps, the low voices, the stretcher wheels bumping against the doorway.

We sat and watched as they wheeled him out, our lives split in two — before and after.

I don’t remember crying. I just remember the stillness — how everything in the room seemed to hold its breath.

But it wasn’t until the funeral that the reality hit.

The smell of the funeral home — that heavy mix of flowers, chemicals, and something colder underneath — has never left me.

Even now, years later, one trace of it can pull me right back to that day.

It’s the reason I’ve never stepped foot in one since.

When Love Turned Toxic

My parents' relationship had always been toxic — love and anger tangled together so tightly that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

They fought like people who couldn’t live with or without each other, and my sister was often pulled into the middle — made to carry messages, blame, and guilt that never should’ve been hers.

The night he died, he handed her the bottle and told her it was their fault.

She was too young to carry a weight like that, but she did — and somehow, she still carried me too.

The Protector

My sister became my protector, the one who stood between me and the storm.

She learned to clean up chaos before it spilled over, to read moods before the shouting started.

She became the soft place I landed when everything else was sharp.

And now, as an adult, she’s still one of the strongest people I know — living proof that strength doesn’t come from what you survived, but from how you choose to keep loving despite it.

The House That Broke Me

That house taught me that love could break you.

It taught me that silence can be louder than words and that sometimes the people you need the most are the ones who hurt the deepest.

But it also taught me something else: what not to become.

My father’s death became a promise I made to myself — that my kids would never know that kind of emptiness.

That no matter how dark the days get, they will never sit and watch me disappear.

So I push through the depression, even when it feels impossible.

I keep showing up, because I remember what it felt like when someone didn’t.

Learning to Rebuild

The house that broke me still lives somewhere in my memory — quiet, heavy, unfinished.

But I’ve stopped trying to escape it.

Now I walk through it with open eyes, acknowledging every room, every scar, every echo.

Because in understanding what broke me, I finally learned how to build something better.

And this time, I’m making sure the walls know love by heart.