Prompt from here.
A short and random thing just because.
When I was little, my mother told me to memorise our home address.
Not exactly P. Sherman 42, Wallaby Way, but it was quite an easy one even for a scatterbrain like me.
So when the kind policeman found me on the edge of the woods, he knew where to sent me back to.
Because that address was where I’m supposed to be.
So that address was home.
That house was home.
Later I read this line on a neighbour’s fridge magnet:
“A house is not a home.”
When I asked my mother about it, she giggled and tousled my hair, telling me that I’d understand when I got older.
A scowl decorated my face as I tried to comb my hair with my fingers.
A few years later, as predicted, I got older.
I forgot all about that phrase.
That was until the wretched man first walked into the house I used to call home.