The inside was a mess; the furniture was pushed to the side, chairs had toppled over, vases had shattered, paintings were misaligned. In the living room were shredded couches, carpets scorched in some places, and over the island an equally tattered kitchen with drawers pulled out and cupboards left open. Potted plants—as I’d remembered them neatly lined up along the windows in a video—had broken on the ground, dirty soil tainting the hardwood planks and rugs.
This didn’t look like the home I’d seen in the videos my parents sent, the background I’d at least known them from. Nothing was familiar. They’d even ripped my chance to see their home intact. Be it a selfish thought or not.
More importantly, the damage was disconcerting. The taste of burnt wood was thick on my tongue, and somewhere
