"When I was little, I dreamed of flying away. "Why do you have to go so far?" Mom asked me. "Blame all the story books," I said.
After having three boys, my parents decided to have the last bet for a girl. They got what the wished for, me. But I didn't want to be a girl.
I wanted to play with my brothers and chase the lost kites into the field with them. But I was not allowed into their gang.
Instead, I spent a lot of time reading. To tell the truth, I didn't mind. I loved stories and I dreamed of being one of the children in Enid Blyton's books.
They cared for their own pet goat, ventured to the forest, and played in the snow. When I was seven, I decided "I will leave here and live in a place with snow and squirrels."
I had to wait though; I needed to grow up, older and older and older. Finally last year, I knew it was time.
I flew to the UK and waited for my snow. One morning, it was suddenly there. All the white stuff was outside my window. I ran out and scooped some up. "Aww, so cold."
And it hit me, "What is the good of all the beauty, without the hands of my loved ones in mine?"
Eighteen years after this small girl shouted, "I am going to fly away" she found something more important than the dream.
I knew it was time to fly home."