Personal Narrative Essay: My Life In A Motorhome

I stood at the end of the driveway with a bag of clothes and my little sisters by my side. My dad pulled up, we got in the truck, and we drove about 10 minutes until we got to his shop. This would seem like a normal day, but things were different this time. We weren 't at the shop to ride the four wheelers around or to play basketball in the garage or to mess with the pinball machines. There was a gloomy feel about everything around us. Even though I didn’t say anything, I knew things were changing. Our Motorhome sat out front in the driveway. I unlocked it and after we went inside, we pulled the couches out and put the sleeping bags on top. My dad turned on the tv and left to put my little sister to sleep. Living in Motorhome isn’t as glorious as it sounds; it’s really loud when the air conditioner is running. And sure, we had Direct TV, but the signal wasn’t great. The last thing I ever wanted was to share a bed with my sister or to live out of a bag of half dirty clothes. It would have lifted the mood if my dad had pretended we were going on a quick camping trip. It isn’t luxurious to live in a Motorhome when it isn’t your decision. That was our first night in house #2. They say that home isn’t a place, it’s a

I was forced to grow up and be the responsible older sister, in charge of finding my sister when school got out to walk home. Learning to pack for a weekend away was something I had to do because my mother had to help my sisters. I couldn’t talk to my mom about the fact that she had to hide her new smoking addiction from us. I may have been young, but I could pick up on the smell of a cigarette lingering in our garage. My sisters didn’t need to know, so I pretended I didn’t know. When I turned 14 and got my license, I was charged with transporting my sisters to and from our parents’ and friends’ houses. I had to be the source of communication between my parents. I still am after 12