Today someone on ScrapShare posted about a doll house that her husband had made. It reminded me very much of the doll house my dad made me as a child and also made me a little sad at how my family is. He had made it when we moved to our first house, previously we had lived in apartments, and he matched the building and paint scheme to that house.
You see when we cleaned out my parents attic a couple years ago, I asked if I could take my doll house and was told no. My sister said no because she was the one who had daughters, I only have a son what would I need it for. For the memories since I was the one who played with it. My mother said no swearing that my dad had made it for her. What!?!?! News to me anyways.
That doll house is now at my sisters and she painted it pink and with a purple roof. It's ruined as far as I'm concerned. The worst part is I don't think they realize or care that it meant so much to me. :( Reason number 77 that I hate my family.