After I turn to close the door, I creep inside—the impossibly large entryway threatening to grow even larger and swallow me whole. It seems so peculiar to me—how the house has not diminished in size, but rather seems so much more colossal than I had remembered. Usually, childhood homes shrink in size when you return to them. At least that’s what I’ve been told. But not this place. For some inexplicable reason, the house seemed to become even bigger in my absence, like some cruel magic trick at my expense.
