The Home I Hope She Remembers

Sitting on the counter in our kitchen is an Aura frame. It is one of my favorite things in our home because it quietly brings forgotten moments back to life. Photos tucked away in my phone or hidden inside old albums suddenly appear as I make coffee or wash dishes. Some are of Dustin and me when we were younger. Most are of Emma.

Every time a new photo fades onto the screen, I am reminded how much our world changed the day she was born. Our house changed too. You can feel it the moment you walk through the door.

Her little shoes lined up on the bench by the side entrance. A backpack overflowing with treasures she insisted on bringing with her. Fresh artwork taped proudly to the refrigerator. Toys scattered across the living room floor. Books spilling out of her tent. Stuffed animals waiting patiently on the couch for someone to love them. A trail of sand that somehow escaped the sand table.

Some days I look around and see clutter, but most days I see a childhood blooming. These four walls are her whole world right now. This is where she feels safe enough to imagine. Safe enough to make messes. Safe enough to be completely herself.

Before Emma, our home was quieter. Everything had its place. There was more open space and fewer shoes by the door. Today our home feels alive.

When she is older and looks back on her childhood home, I hope she remembers the dance parties in the kitchen. Family walks after dinner. Hanging out on the porch. Reading books before bed. Family movie night in the basement with Bob bringing Angelica’s cookies.

We are grateful for this space and the way it holds the ones we love. Friday pizza nights. Barbeques in the backyard. The random hang because “how often do we get together.”

I hope she remembers the holidays we hosted. Playing hide-and-seek with her cousins. Her grandparents living with us when they weren’t traveling. Great Aunts coming over on a random Tuesday night. Pulling out the folding chairs and tables to make space for everyone.

I hope she remembers the house filled with family and friends. That people were always more important than appearances. Because a beautiful life isn’t built in perfect moments. It’s built in the ordinary ones. The ones we almost always overlook while we are living them.

With her being an only child, I worry that she will feel lonely. But then I think about this house. About the people constantly walking through the side door. The conversations around the dinner table. The cousins who feel more like siblings. The friends who have become family. And I realize that home isn’t measured by how many people live inside it; it is measured by how many people feel welcome there.

Maybe that is what I am really hoping she will remember. Not the house itself, but how it felt. A place where people kicked off their shoes, grabbed a snack from the cabinet, and cozied up at the counter. A place where people lingered, and laughter echoed from the basement. A place where there was always room at the table. A place where she always belonged.

One day she will leave these four walls, but I hope she carries that feeling of love and belonging with her wherever she goes.

Home isn't remembered for how perfectly it was kept. It's remembered for how deeply we felt loved within its walls.

When you think back on your childhood home, what feeling do you carry with you the most?