The House That Raised Me

I was built like the old oak table— steady, bearing the weight of voices heavier than mine. They spoke of storms I didn't start, left me to sweep the broken glass as if my hands weren't small, as if they hadn't splintered already. They stitched a story from my silence, painted me in wildfire shades, called it defense when they fanned the flames. I learned early to bite my tongue, to carry the years like a second spine. The house rattled with its ghosts, whispering of what I owed. Gratitude, obedience, a softer voice— but never a door of my own to close. And it I ask for air, for space, the walls moan in sorrow, sagging beneath their own weight, as if I had built them.