The clanging of pots resounds throughout the confines of the kitchen. It’s a narrow strip, suitable for only one person at a time, complete with a miniature chandelier—clad with overly-bright, cringe-worthy plastic orbs dangling from it in a dangerously delicate fashion. When you stand in the living room you can see three out of the four rooms in the cramped apartment, but that’s ok, mom says, because we’re lucky to have a breath-taking view of the ocean. 75% of it, of course, which is covered by two crumbling, crimson brick buildings. You could hear the roar of a football match from the living room’s battered old Samsung TV in my room, which was the smallest, but—as I often boasted—the cleanest kept. It was light and airy, besides the fact that it took me less than six steps to walk from one side of it to the other. My mother’s room, in contrast, was a lair—a cave of sorts. Dimly-lit it was the holding place for her many handbags and various trinkets she’d collected over the years. Her bed, large and quite plush to the touch, took up most of the room, the duvet’s floral pattern demanding and intriguing. Her closet was massive, bursting with dresses of crazy print and length I’d never seen her wear before. Shoes of various height and style, some of which I silently admired, littered the floor of the closet and lay forgotten under the bed. The bathroom, a warm glow of neutrals and styled in a rustic-modern theme, had a shower head far too low for my head—a lot of peculiar angling and leaning back was involved in taking a simple shower. The general aroma of the household was that of the sea and the clean-cut wind rushing through the (frequently) wide-open window—my mom’s overpowering perfume and of the earth that was tracked in by my step-father’s work boots. Everything is white, with the exception of the bathroom, and the ceilings of both my mother and I’s bedrooms were a gentle blue. There is clutter of useless little artifacts scattered along the surfaces of the mantle on the fake fireplace and the table on which we dine, and the wall is so full of paintings you can barely see fragments of the pristine white wall behind it. The apartment is so heavily occupied by carefully-framed paintings and diplomas my mom has proudly hung that I’ve taken to calling it a museum of my past and ongoing development. Regardless, my home is dear to me. My home is where my mom, an intrusive creature, bursts into my room without permission and needs not raise her voice as it carries well through the small apartment. It is a place that does not house my biological father but instead is also the home to a wonderful stranger I’d known for eight years who’d married my mother. It is where I thrive and where I mope, it is where I rejoice and where I return when I am crestfallen and there is no other place to turn to. Though it is now my sixth home, like all others I’d lived in it holds a piece of me that is welcoming no matter what the situation may be, and it is where I ultimately rely on for never ending support and relief. So thank you, my tiny apartment, for being the best metaphorical friend I could ask for, and never forget my presence when my time comes to leave.