There was still not enough furniture for her to have been living here for three years. She kept loads of decorating and D.I.Y. magazines in her room and bathrooms, though. There were lonely walls, unless you count the small thumb prints and nail holes for company. There were two red arm chairs with lumpy cushions, where frequent strangers would sit, spill shit and gossip. There was this one time when my mom was gossiping about the girl down the street who couldn’t find a man, and I wanted to say, “but isn’t that the reason all of us have different dads? Because you can’t find one either?” Instead I bit my toenails. There was a stain on the left arm of the armchair closest to the bar with no bar stools. There were ceiling fans loaded with dust. There was a stereo system that made the walls vibrate when the volume was turned up to its maximum. The 50 inch HDTV glistened and smiled as it hung on the wall like a trophy.