Carries Playhouse Apr 2026

Carrie was seven years old, and she had a secret. The secret lived at the bottom of her backyard, beneath the sprawling arms of an old willow tree. It was her playhouse.

And they did.

Carrie felt the words land in her chest like cold stones. “What about my playhouse?”

She didn’t have words for what she felt. She was only seven. But she understood, somehow, that this little wooden box had been a door. Not a door into a ship or a bakery, but a door into herself. The person she was when no one was watching.

It was a Tuesday in late August. Her mother sat her down at the kitchen table, where the sunlight made a square on the checkered cloth. “Carrie,” she said softly, “you know how we’ve been looking at new houses?”

The willow leaves rustled. An owl called somewhere in the distance.

In the morning, the movers came. They packed boxes and rolled up rugs. Carrie’s father hooked the trailer to the truck. No one said much about the playhouse. It was just an old shed, after all.

For the next three weeks, she visited the playhouse every single day. She brought Captain Biscuit (who was, in reality, a pebble she’d named) and Mr. Puddles. She traced the crack in the window with her finger. She smelled the old wood and the dry grass and the dust motes dancing in the golden light. She tried to memorize everything.