During the summer, my dad had a routine: he’d wake me around 9 a.m., feed me breakfast, and then send me outside, locking the door behind me. I wasn’t allowed back in until the streetlights blinked on, except for quick bathroom breaks or a drink of water. Back then, it felt harsh—but as I grew older, I understood he wasn’t being mean or distant. He believed he was giving me something valuable: self-reliance, a love for the outdoors, the thrill of discovery, and maybe even a quiet kind of toughness.
At the time, though, I just figured he wanted peace and quiet inside. I’d shuffle along cracked sidewalks, kicking stones, cutting through overgrown lots where the grass brushed my knees, and riding my bike until my thighs burned. I wasn’t the only one—there were other kids whose parents followed that same unwritten summer rule: the indoors were off-limits. We’d gather beneath the massive oak at the end of Timber Street, its branches our secret stronghold, hiding us from imaginary beasts and curious eyes.
That’s where I met Serena—she wore mismatched socks and carried a backpack full of marbles. She taught me how to flick them so they spun across the pavement like tiny dancers. We’d squat in the dirt, our knees streaked with green, trying to knock each other’s marbles out of a hand-drawn ring. She’d roar with laughter whenever I missed, her braids flying as she threw her head back.
One afternoon, we stumbled upon a forgotten shopping cart behind Mr. Patel’s store. It felt like striking gold. We took turns pushing each other up and down the street, cracking up until we nearly toppled over. Serena came up with the idea to race it down the hill by the train tracks—a steep, dangerous slope we’d all been warned about. I was the first rider. The wind slapped my face as we barreled down, the cart rattling like it might fall apart. For a moment, I felt like I was flying—until we crashed into a blackberry bush, scratched but grinning, our laughter tangled with the thorns.
As the summer stretched on, more kids joined our little gang. Manny brought a slingshot he never really used, and the twins, Lisa and Lana, always spoke in unison. We’d gather change to buy popsicles from the ice cream truck, trying to guess the driver’s name. We called him “Mr. Freeze” because he never smiled—but he’d give us an extra if we picked up litter.
Each day shimmered with that endless, sun-soaked feeling only childhood summers have—even when it rained. We’d sit under the old bus shelter, racing raindrops down the glass, daring each other to stomp in puddles so big they soaked us to our socks. Our giggles would bounce off the pavement long after the storm passed, our shoes squelching with every step.
Still, sometimes in the quiet of late afternoon, I’d find myself alone on the swings behind the school, gazing past the chain-link fence that bordered our small world. I’d wonder why my dad didn’t want me inside, why he always closed that door so firmly. I’d picture him sitting in his favorite chair, reading a book or…