Home is a perspective.
People can live inside the same four walls, sheltered by the same roof, sit around the same dining table and see different things. Or see the same things in entirely different ways.
My memories of my childhood home are of a mostly delightful kind of chaos in an over-crowded ranch. Short on bedrooms, big on bedlam. Age-wise, I fell dead center of six kids and can recall a heated discussion among siblings about where exactly the eminent next arrival was going to sleep. I was all in favor of a neighbor’s house. Instead, my dad single-handedly remodeled the basement thereby almost doubling our living space and probably preventing a black eye or two. In my middle position I was uniquely qualified as both giver and receiver.