Home, the place where we grow up.
My family is my dad, my mom, and me. Dad is quiet and dependable; Mom is virtuous and loves to nag. As for me, I'm carefree and don't like to move around.
There are endless stories to tell, full of tears and laughter, though more often they leave us laughing and crying at the same time.
Someone once asked me, "What is love?"
I improvised: "Love is when one person has the other wrapped around their finger. In plain terms, one person wants to fight and the other is willing to take it. Put sweetly, one person is happy to feed the other, and the other is happy to eat."
I went home and proudly bragged about it.
Mom said, "Isn't family love the same? You ungrateful little thing."
I fell silent. She had a point.
Then I shamelessly begged her to pay attention to me and forgive me.
I live away from home now, but every time I visit, I have to eat a serving of twice-cooked pork. That's what home is like, I guess.
P.S. I wrote this for that microfiction event about home. The blurb is longer than the story itself. I'm embarrassed! Please be kind.
Theme:
No one has a sofa, so I have a sofa. Experience the pain of writing online. Regardless of whether the writing is good or bad, no one reads it, which is frustrating.