1st paragraph

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I live at 215 Lawndale Drive in Chicago, Illinois, it’s a rundown yellow house with a red door. But I didn’t always live here
I used to live in a nice house with a white picket fence, 355 Greenhills Road in Nashville, Tennessee. We moved here recently because my father was killed, and my mother felt it was the appropriate way of dealing with grief
. I don’t know for sure what happened to my father, my mother says I'm not mentally ready to know the whole story. Everything after the incident feels like a blur, like that season in my life never happened. But for my mother, I think her period of grief is never ending.
That made it 10 times harder when we were left with nothing. Though downgrading and moving away from the only normal I've ever known was hard, the change that was the most hard was leaving my best friend, Emma.
My mother was a well put together, stereotypical housewife. She had a nice wardrobe full of designer bags and shoes, she always had her nails done, and had a hair appointment every 6 weeks. She took advantage of the opportunities my dad provided us with.
She knows everything about me, everything I'm going through, it's almost like she knows a part of me that I don't know exists.

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