Her laughter once echoed through the walls.
She used to shriek when Daddy came home.
The pitter-patter of feet on the tile used to warp the silence to singularity.
She used to giggle at her attempts to blow a bubble.
There was once a day where she felt mischeibious for drinking even the slightest bit of coffee with milk.
She found adventure on the cobblestones hidden behind the bushes.
Until one day, it all stopped.
The house grew quiet.
She was no longer there to lighten the atmosphere.
It was no longer a home.
The furniture grew dust.
The silence was louder than any sound possible to make.
The little girl now lit up a new home.
Yet that home was far from light.
Because that little girl grew up.
The laughter morphed into tears.
The shrieks for Daddy coming home now became shrieks at Daddy that she hated him.
The pitter-patter of her feet was replaced by the pitter-patter of their feet-- "their" being the little kids that were now more important than her.
She no longer giggled.
Or even smiled.
Happiness became an unknown concept to her.
Her mischief became a regular thing.
She felt pushed towards breaking the rules.
It's the only way they noticed her.
There was no more adventure in her life.
She had done it all and what others called adventure--she called her everyday life.
She missed laughing.
Smiling.
Being happy.
She missed the spirit.
The bliss.
The carefree.
