This was never home for her - she didn't feel as though it could have been home, but she stayed awhile. I didn't acknowledge I had made it a home, she didn't acknowledge that she saw me making it into a home; that I furnished it with love, brimmed it with care, gilded it with saccharine nonsense, that I had made it home. Years later, I admit, I had made it a home then. Now, I can't even hold it aloft as a house.
Hearts can be silly.
Love bade me to build a home, and then, my love left home.