It’s been a week since we moved out of our house, and I thought I’d miss it more than I do. I miss our neighbours, I miss our porch and I miss our tree lined street, but the house itself, I don’t think about too much. It was the life inside the house –– the people, the paintings, the photographs –– that made our house a home. And once you take all that away, it’s just a shell. And a crumbling one at that. When I visit the house now –– it looks downtrodden –– all I see are cracked walls, mouse holes and dirty, old floorboards. I used to feel sad about tearing it down, now I can’t wait.