Sandra Cisneros never thought she’d own a home. Growing up with six brothers and her two parents in an immigrant neighborhood in Chicago, she always dreamt of a place of quiet, where she could be alone, have messy hair and not have to make her bed.
She had dreamt of a land of solitude where her thoughts could be put to paper and her laundry didn’t have to be neatly folded every time. A place where she could be creative, a place where she wasn’t frightened. But never for one moment thought it’d be a house.
