I was seventeen, old enough to taste freedom but still young enough to fear the quiet. The summer my family left for Canada without me, our house felt larger than it ever had—rooms echoing, clocks ticking too loudly, and nights stretching thin. They were supposed to be gone seven days. I worked mornings at a grocery store, came home to microwave dinners, and slept with the radio on for company. On the seventh day, a postcard arrived. It was addressed in my mother’s handwriting,…..CONTINUE READING BELOW
Pages: 1 2
