“Nibble nibble, like a mouse, who is nibbling in my house?”

That is what our grandmother says when she catches us eating between meals.

We don’t like her.

And I have a pretty good suspicion that she doesn’t like us.

“Stick out your finger, let me feel it.”

That is what she says to my five-year-old brother when he gets splinters.

She pinches hard.

We try not tell her when we get injuries.

“Better do your chores well, or I’ll shove you in the oven.”

That is what that old hag says to me as I mow her lawn and vacuum the kitchen.

We didn’t want this.

How did we end up with a home where the house reeks of sugar but is never sweet?

“Come on, children. Your father will take you out to the woods.”

That was the best memories we have of our parents, before they left us.

Laughing, like family.

Slowly it died down, the fun times lost behind in the lush green forest.

“There’s a magical trail of breadcrumbs. We’ll follow them back home!”

Hansel says that when he sees that I’m discouraged.

If only so.

Yet there is no way back home. Our parents are never coming back.