Only three blocks from the preceding apartment, this was another fairly seedy six-flat place in a row of three such buildings, but in our building each flat had been broken up into two apartments, front and rear. We lived in the third-floor front apartment, moving there soon after the divorce. It was much more cramped than the Hamilton Blvd. place, but it was at least not so disgustingly filthy.
This was the place of the greatest hardship for my mother, but despite a certain level of economic difficulty, for the kids it was easier than it had been, because the old man was now out of the picture. But neither my sister nor I got along particularly well with our mother's boyfriend, an increasingly present figure in our lives. He and my mother would get married in the next place, a few months after I left home for college. I would not attend.
Increasingly, home was where I slept, more than anything else. There were a few domesticities. My sister did most of the cooking and outward care-giving. I did the family laundry and delivered my papers. Other than these few things, there was little to bind us together as a family unit. Our interests didn't overlap and each person led a more or less independent life. In retrospect, this was probably a period of some neglect for my brother, who at age 10-12 was too young for full independence yet no longer a child.
My life, such as it was, was for the most part lived outside of the home: school, friends, ham radio, tennis, paper routes or (after I turned 16) the newspaper editorial room, sex, piano lessons, and general juvenile delinquency of the relatively harmless sort.
I guess the right slant on all this is that over a period of some years, a process of growing away from "home," in the sense of where one's parents and other family might reside, was getting underway and would culminate with my going away to college a few years later.