A House, Not A Home
The white plastic of the front porch swing sticks to my sweaty legs. Instead of the chirping sound of the cicadas in the locust trees, I hear the sound of the neighbor’s terrier barking and the rumble of passing cars on our street.
“Lily, you’ll love living in the suburb. Our new home is bigger. We even have a pool!” Daddy’s words echo in my head.
The air is different here. Thicker. I imagine myself suffocating slowly while the surrounding pastel houses box me in. Daddy says this is our new home. But he’s wrong. This will never be home.