“Home sweet home.” That’s what my mother would sometimes exclaim when she came home after a long day or when, to my delight, we’d return to our Chicago home after a weekend road trip.
Lately, I’ve been reminiscing on this—wondering how the saying fits into a world where I, a Black woman, can be murdered in my own home.
That’s how Breonna Taylor’s life was stolen from her; that’s what happened to Atatiana Jefferson. I’ve been puzzling over what “home sweet home” means to my husband.
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