The House I Outgrew

I was raised in a house of whispered rules— not spoken, just felt. Like cold floors in the morning or the way my mother sighed instead of apologizing. My mind was made there, brick by invisible brick. Built from don’t speak unless, don’t cry unless, don’t ask unless. And so I learned to read silence like scripture, to decode the sharp breath before the storm. But now— I am grown, and this mind, stitched together by someone else’s hands, builds rooms around me. Rooms too tight. Windows painted shut. I try to renovate with grace— add light where there was none, a window seat for my daughter where she can dream loud and unafraid. She will not inherit my hush. She will inherit my rebellion.