I picture it sometimes–what I'll build for you. “Dinner’s ready!” I call, and your footsteps thunder down the hallway, shaking our wooden floors. The walls are filled with warmth and laughter. I know it’s not perfect, but it's real. It's ours. Sad truth though. It's not real. This is the dream I’ve always held onto when life is too heavy. I used to count the apartments I've lived in– 1... 2… 3. I thought it was kind of cool, like I'd been everywhere! But really, it just hid a deeper truth of instability. I look around the place I live now and struggle to call it home: cracked walls, chipped paint, bugs we can’t get rid of, clutter we can’t maintain. And the foundation holding it all together—an unstable single mom. Some days, it felt like I had to pick word for word what to say, scared to tip the mood of the whole house. Others, sounds of despair and exhaustion filled the air: “it will get better soon. We’ll be out of here,” she says. (I sit here on my bed: clutter, bugs, mess). I learned that home didn’t mean peace but survival. “Be happy we have somewhere,” is etched in my brain. I didn’t realize how much it affected me till I saw how easy it was for other kids to thrive. What is normal for my classmates became a luxury for me: washer and dryer, air conditioning, furniture. School became my lifeline, and this dump became my prison. If I could speak to you now, my future children, I’d tell you about the house I'm building right now. Not with wood or drywall, but with every decision I make. Every shift I pick up. Every dollar I save. Every test I study for. It was the day we moved here. I was the optimistic one, cheering up my family: “it's actually really nice!” “We can fix it up, we can deep clean!” After a while exhaustion hit. Each piece of trash, clothing, contact lens, bug–it crushed the hope I'd been holding onto. The mess wasn’t physical; it represented the life I lived, one I couldn’t face. I knew my true home was in the far future.. It wouldn’t be provided to me, I had to make it myself. And that's the first time I laid the cement, grabbed a brick, and placed it down… for you. Yes, it still gets hard, I ask myself; Can I really keep going? Yes. Always yes. The clutter still weighs on me–it's different now, maybe just 20 pounds. I’m reminded of the warmth again, it snaps me back. Study, work, pick up trash, help mom–and then do it all over again. BAM! I’ve conquered more bricks, I look up and see my progress. This won’t stop once I leave here. It’s what will help me pursue nursing. For a while, I pictured this as a gift for them. To give them something I never had. But I now know I deserve that too. I deserve to want to come home. I deserve to finally have peace. I deserve to enjoy something I’ve put my whole heart into also. This house started as a dream, something simple I knew I wanted. But I've learned who I'm becoming. Every brick I lay shows me my own strength, my own worth, that “I did that?” feeling. One day, your footsteps will truly echo on those wooden floors and I'll know I did it. I’ll finally see those bricks come to life from my decisions. Until then, you’ll see mom building the life for herself.