A layer of dust coats my fingers as I glide them across the oak dresser. Bright colored stickers decorating the top catch my eye as I grasp the rusted handles. Opening the top drawer, I see myself looking at me, my sisters scrawny arm placed protectively around me. Our parents stand behind us, shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare. I know this day. It was the day we moved into the house, the start of my childhood. I snatch the photo, not wanting it to disappear and fold my legs beneath me on the floor. Sitting, I gaze at my sisters crooked smile, my fathers tall frame, my mothers comforting eyes and the empty house cowering in the back.