The world was locked gates and satellite dishes, iron bars on every window. Sometimes, soccer balls and children’s laughter floated over the fence. I didn’t return them. I’d promised my mother I’d stay inside. It was important to be good. Otherwise, my mother wouldn’t make me butter and sugar sandwiches, the crusts cut off. Otherwise, my mother might slap me. I sat alone with my dollhouse, where the sun couldn’t tempt me. I had two Barbies, real ones. The dolls were rich. They had a pink convertible. They took their long-haired cats to the vet and streaked each other’s hair purple. Dinner was always spaghetti. I’m happy, they’d sing, I’m happy. When I closed my eyes, I was still outside their happiness. The dolls wrote heartfelt letters to each other: secrets, chore lists, promises they couldn't possibly keep. I kept the letters under the parquet tiles I’d pried out of my bedroom floor. Once, I found a cockroach in the dolls’ dining room. It had too many legs: curled like a closed fist. Afterwards, I gave away the dolls. I stuck to watching TV. When I heard my mother’s car in the driveway, I’d skitter into my room, pretend I was doing homework. I would always give my mother a kiss. Together, we’d walk to the park. My mother pushed me so high on the swings, I could see the tops of airplanes. We’d feed the fish, their greedy lips opening and opening in the murk. It was my mother who taught me the names of the trees, my mother who showed me how to rip open the stems of red ixora, to sip at the nectar. I licked so many flowers. I didn’t know how to tell her they were barely ever sweet.