Dear Smiths,

Let me begin by saying, happy Home Day to you. Well done and congratulations on, well, I’m not sure. As you so often say yourself, you didn’t actually do anything. But your ancestors did. And you celebrate it. We won’t be celebrating with you, however, despite your invitation.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand how important family pride is, as you well know, given my previous letters of correspondence. No, really, I get it. Tradition is important.

But here’s the thing my dear Smiths... while Home Day for you is a celebration of how wonderful your house is and how lucky you are to live there, for myself and my own family it’s something else entirely. It’s a reminder of when our home long ago became your home.

Home Day’s when my great, great, great grandfather answered the door and another man pushed his way in.

Home Day’s when that other man cut my great, great, great grandfather’s throat.

Home Day’s when my great, great, great grandmother wept as her own daughter was raped in the living room.

Home Day’s when what we had, what we could have had in days and generations to come, was stolen from us.

Now here’s another thing my dear Smiths... I don’t hate you. Like I said before, like you’ve said before, you didn’t actually do anything. But your ancestors did. And you celebrate it.

My parents were always quiet whenever we’d pass your home. It was a sad quiet. An angry quiet. A quiet I didn’t really understand when I was younger, but fully understand now.

It’s a quiet that I also carry now as it sits behind my teeth, furious in its tired patience – especially on Home Day.

Home Day’s when your ancestors chased mine out of their own house, forcing them to take up residence three doors down. Squatting, they’d call it now.

Home Day’s when a distant aunt on my mother’s side was told she should put on some shoes. When a distant man on your own father’s side whipped her with his belt when she refused.

Can you imagine that? Eleven years old, in her own yard – the smaller one, three doors down – beaten by the son of the man who’d once raped her own grandmother.

You wouldn’t get away with that these days, would you. And even if you did, you’d certainly hope that in years to come someone wouldn’t put up streamers to celebrate such a thing.

Oh, hang on... That’s what your ancestor did.

And you celebrate it.

Sorry, that was a tad snarky, and I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. But I’m angry. You’ll have to excuse me.

It’s not your fault. I know that. You and your family didn’t do these horrible things. But your family’s family’s family did. And you commemorate that with a party, one you expect us to join, at that.

Thanks for the invite, by the way, but we have to decline... again.

Three doors down in our own smaller home, with its smaller yard – the one with the lemon tree that has your lemons on it (I still don’t get that one, but that’s another letter/court appeal for another day) – we’ll have ourselves our own traditional get-together. Nothing fancy, more of a quiet family dinner really. I say quiet, but that’s a lie, what with how loudly your own music plays on Home Day.

As I said, I understand how important family pride is. We usually end the night by reading over a diary my great, great, great, great grandmother kept. I actually passed it on to my own daughter for her birthday last year. You should’ve seen her face!

She takes good care of it, knowing it’s the last of many after your own ancestors burned the rest. She was understandably upset when your son tore one of the pages out last month. Again, I promise I don’t hate you. But your son, he’s a bit of a shit.

Who knows, maybe you could call that one Paper Day, have a ticker-tape parade every year or something.

Anyway, I digress.

The point is, that’s how we’ll spend our day, when we remember what we had, who we were, who we still proudly are to this day, three doors down from you. That’s why we won’t attend your party, we can’t celebrate the same things that you do, the things that your ancestors did when they made our home your home, the one that you’re lucky to live in.

I’m curious about something, however, before I sign off...

That whole bad blood between our families, what if it hadn’t been just my great, great, great grandfather who’d been murdered?

Or just one woman who’d been raped?

Or just one girl who’d been beaten?

What if it had have been your people that had happened to?

It might sound silly, but try to imagine if it had have been thousands upon thousands of people that were murdered, stolen from, raped and beaten – something akin to genocide even.

Would you celebrate it then?

Just a thought, one of many my family has on Home Day.

Yours proudly, three doors down,

The Joneses