True Stories I Found in the House I Grew Up

Digging up the bones I left behind

Emotion always gets me when the plane is approaching land, and I can see the jungles and the green forest below; I see mist and low clouds, and I become flooded with memories of when I was a kid growing up in Brazil. Many people my age don’t have the luxury of visiting the house they grew up; for now, I still have this treasure that belongs to my sisters and me. But not for long

The true stories come from two houses. The first is my parents’ house, which I was raised in until I was a teenager, and the other is my Aunt Lucia’s house, a few houses down the street. I consider them both to be the houses of my past.

My Aunt Lucia was married to a construction guy who built both houses — one for her and the other for my parents. After Aunt Lucia died, my parents bought the house that then belonged to her daughter. This house is part of my later adult life.

My Aunt Lucia was an intelligent and fascinating woman. She married a man of humble beginnings, to whom my aunt was a source of guidance and self-improvement. She fell in love with him because of his raw power, potential, looks, and thirst for success, which later turned out to be disastrous for both.