This Was Bigger Than an Address

That night, my mother and I were somewhere that felt familiar but unnamed—a place close to a store, close to home, close to safety. We were walking back together when she started laughing, being playful, careless in the way only mothers sometimes can be. She spoke to a group of young boys and, before I could stop her, gave out my phone number like it was nothing.

One of them approached me, smiling, expectant. I felt the pressure of assumption—that I would comply, that I would hand over something personal because it had already been offered. I didn’t. I dodged him, stepped away, and kept walking.

In my arms was my baby cousin, Khilo. His weight grounded me. His breathing reminded me that I was responsible for more than myself.

When I looked back, the boys were following us.

My mother stopped. She turned to them, her voice sharp now, protective. She told them not to come to our house. Not ever. I kept walking, faster this time, until distance swallowed her words and I couldn’t hear her anymore.

I turned the corner and thought I was safe.

I wasn’t.

I reached what I believed was our home, but something felt wrong. The air shifted. A sound—footsteps, a voice—followed me. Panicked, I entered another apartment and hid inside, pressing myself beside a bed, holding my breath, holding Khilo close.

He found me anyway.

My legs betrayed me, visible at the edge of the bed. When I stood, anger replaced fear. I yelled at him for entering a home without permission, for crossing a boundary that should have been obvious, sacred. He tried to speak, but I wouldn’t listen. I walked out, my voice louder than my shaking hands.

“Is this your house?” he asked.

“Yes,” I screamed, even though I wasn’t sure anymore.

Outside, as we moved up the street, a mail carrier handed him a stack of letters, mistaking him for a resident. He looked down and saw my name printed there. His face changed. Rage surfaced. I had lied—or maybe the world had.

He followed me, yelling now, until he said something that froze my blood:

“This is bigger than an address.”

I turned just in time to see his hand reach into his waistband.

The gun appeared.

Time collapsed. I dropped to my knees, shielding Khilo, but something blocked my view. I couldn’t see how close he was until suddenly he was right there—too close—with the gun pressed against my baby cousin’s temple.

And then I woke up.

Heart racing. Arms empty. The fear lingering longer than the dream.

---

Reflection

This dream wasn’t about a house. It was about boundaries, protection, and how easily safety can be violated when others feel entitled to you—your space, your body, your identity.“This is bigger than an address” felt like a warning: some threats don’t come from where you live, but from how others think they’re allowed to access you.

1)      Have you ever felt someone believe access to you was owed?

2)      Have you ever felt unsafe without knowing exactly where the danger began?