The House I Used to Live In

This story begins when I was much older, worlds away from those early years, and I had a daughter of my own. I’m Miranda, and I’m living a life I’ve prepared myself. But that life never came. My parents worried about me. So did my teachers. Though the safe path was always right in front of me, I kept veering off it into something which did not seem unknown or perilous until it was too late to prevent the damage. My aunts and uncles referred to me as a free spirit and exchanged glances, which suggested in an adult way that they were a little worried about how I was going to turn out. Despite my mother’s many attempts at reeducation, I never quite got over that impulse toward wandering and adventure that got me into so much trouble—not until the events which form the basis of this story, anyway.