Brandy Lien Worrall-Soriano

Six years old, and I wanted to buy a house. I didn’t know about square feet at the time, but if I had known, I’d say approximately three square feet would be perfectly palatial. Seven bedrooms, three bathrooms, three-storey with a basement and a big dining room, enough for my not-yet-acquired family of five and their two dogs and one cat. I wanted a wooden house with a medium-dark gloss finish, and shingles too. And a fence. And I’d do the landscaping—maybe cut a small square or rectangle from Mammy’s fake-grass rug on her porch. The family would love it, especially the identical twin girls who always knew what each other was thinking. The mom makes delicious cookies everyday, and the whole family sits down to eat at five o’clock when the dad gets home from work, no exceptions, except for maybe party night, which is Friday night, and the family eats pizza in front the tv while watching a movie (this is a time when “age-appropriate” was not a concept in our parents’ heads), maybe a scary one or one where they show boobs.

I wanted this house so bad, but I couldn’t afford it, and I never could get such a family anyway.

Instead, I had once ceramic blue loveseat that Mammy had given me from her vast knickknack collection, and two Glamour Gals dolls who sat on it, talking about their families who were never home but would be soon. And at least they had each other, best friends.

I know how times have changed me. No way do I want such a big house, even if I could afford it—too many places to hide or get lost. My family of five and no dogs (except for the downstairs tenants’ dogs) and two cats and 34 snails and some houseplants—we love our kitchen where our dining table is snug in the corner facing the window overlooking the alley. I’m happy I never got that dollhouse cause there’s no room for it in our house now anyway.