Finding Home

I was six, the first time I remember moving. Daddy lost his job and I wasn’t sure what that meant, only that things were different. We suddenly had lots of boxes in the house that were fun to hide in until they got so full of clothes and dishes there was no more room for me. The moving truck in our driveway was the biggest thing on wheels I’d ever seen; I could walk under it without bumping my head. Two very large men started loading our things—the living room couch, my bed, my dolls’ bunk beds, and the dining table where I sat once a year in a fancy dress eating birthday cake with my friends. I ran up and down the ramp a couple of times, until one of the men said, “Little girl, you’d better get out of my way! I don’t want to...