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Flashback time: When I was three, we moved out (technically got kicked out) of our old house because the landlord’s son got married, and the house was a gift to them, I guess. Life moved on, and we stayed in the same area without thinking much about it.
Fast-forward 12 years. I’m on my school’s Science Olympiad team. The teacher orders supplies for the competition, having them sent to her house. When they finally arrive, she brings them to school the next day and gives me my protein modeling kit.
I take it home, and my dad looks at the box with sudden confusion. After checking the address carefully, he says, “This is our old house’s address.” A strange silence fills the room as it clicks.
I tell the teacher I used to live in her current house, and she casually replies, “Oh, sorry, we kicked you out of your house,” as if it were just another forgotten detail of life.
