AT THE FAR end of town, next to a dark forest, sits a dilapidated white house. Kids at my school call it the Spook House, which might be funny except this house is where I live with my mom and little brother, Andy.
The house isn’t haunted, but the outside might make you think twice about entering. Peeling paint reveals black images underneath that look like bats and ghosts. Rickety red shutters hang on by a few rusty nails. And weeds and long grass wrap the house in neglect.
When Mom rented the house, I thought she was crazy. “Are you kidding, Mom? You really signed a lease on this place?”
She seemed surprised by my reaction. “The apartment was too small. I thought you’d be happy to have your own bedroom and not share with me.”
“I do like having more space. But the house is hideous.”
Mom looked hurt, and I regretted my words. I knew she was doing the best she could. Obviously, this house wouldn’t be her first choice if money were
