I’ve lived in the same house my entire life.

My parents and brother moved into this place in 1989, and I arrived a few months later. It’s a beautiful Victorian house, built in the 1860s, and as anyone with a home that old will tell you, they’re somewhat of the lemons of real estate. My closet door doesn’t close, our basement is the creepiest place ever, and only the kitchen and family room are air conditioned. But I absolutely, 100% love it.

Over the years, no matter what sort of teenage (or collegiate) drama was going on with my family, I’ve always wanted to come home. There’s lots of things I don’t like about the weather here, but no matter what tropical destination I could move to, no place will ever quite match the way I can watch the sky turn from black to blue to pink to orange to sunny from my bed. The way my cat got stuck in a wall one time and my dad had to use a sledgehammer to break him out. The way we used to tie parachutes on little plastic army men and throw them over the third floor banister. Or the way I can go through a drawer and find stuff from 1997, because we’ve never been forced to move and weed out all the junk. My brother and I have both talked about buying it from our parents one day- that’s how much we love it.

It’s weird to think that this is probably the last time I’ll actually be living at my parents’ for any decent amount of time. I know it’s a part of growing up, and a lot of people feel this the same, but I’ve always thought that my childhood was truly special because of this place. I’m really excited and ready for what comes next, no matter where it takes me, but I will miss this house. A lot. No matter where I go, I think until I have my own family and my own kids, this will be my home.

Where do you consider “home”? Do your parents still live in the house you grew up in? What’s your best/funniest memory in your childhood home?