First-person stories about the uncomfortable, funny, and downright absurd experiences that only happen in a home.
The house on Pine Street was a place to gather. Now, home is safe because it’s not shared.
When I was a teenager, it was the most dangerous room in the house. Today, it’s where I feel most like myself.
I was exhausted all the time, but I knew my temporary sleeping arrangement would serve me in the end.
I didn’t have the resources to move out of my home, but I’d finally recovered the strength to transform it
Moving had been a fraught subject even before my mom got sick. After her diagnosis, we found an organizer-slash-diplomat.
I am not likely to become the victim of a home invasion crime, but what if letting my guard down just this once invites chaos into the place where I am supposed to feel at home?
I experimented with the ’70s, with farmhouse accents, with psychedelic rainbow cactus prints.
The primary-colored eyesore became a community gathering place.
The kitchen island represented what I desperately craved: normalcy.
My Berlin apartment would be an oasis amid rising rents, but only if I built my own kitchen.
In the grip of early grief, I still felt as though my parents’ things kept me close to them.
I wanted to be easygoing and compromising, but I didn’t see a way to share a space with this particular, peculiar pet.
I didn’t fix the cracks that cut through my walls, first telling myself that I’d get around to it eventually, and later actively avoiding it.
Our generation gap is a flight of stairs.