That was my first home when I first moved to Texas. An old building with nothing special to offer. A pool sat close, a volleyball court filled with sand, there were noises like the chirps of crickets nearby in the grass. My first impression was: meh.

The Apartment itself wasn’t too bad. Yes, The Apartment felt small; but the inhabitants were only Mom and me. The bedroom had a cozy feeling after we’d dragged in the bed and the comforter and some pillows. As a four year old, I thought of the bed as a trampoline (I had no intention of sleeping on it), and found amusement through that. To mom’s delight, the kitchen was bigger than she had originally thought. The living room however, remained empty.

A year or two later, I loved it here. I had a best friend (whom I’m still best friends with) and her name was Ariel, like the Little Mermaid. Our kitchen smelled of hearty food and the living room became not so empty anymore. We had an ottoman that matched our couch. A large dinosaur puzzle that had taken me forever to solve (even though it was twelve pieces), lay dazzling with pride on the ottoman. There, I thought I could boast to everyone (meaning my mom) how clever I was.

The walls in our bedroom were covered in Pokemon cards. Taped one after the other, they hung, about four of the same Pikachus stared at me with blank eyes. It was creepy, but I loved it anyway.

Bluebonnets glittered lightly in the middle of the table and artwork hung on the walls. My toys cluttered up the hallway and in the bathroom; I had also spilled the liquid hand soap. But on the bright side, the bathroom smelled like Japanese Cherry Blossoms for a day.

My childhood home, originally just nothing particularly special, grew into something more than just “the old building next to Fazoli’s.”  It’s where I grew up, where I’d made my first best friend, and where I had all my wonderful experiences in Texas. It’s an apartment. It’s small. It’s cramped. And it’s piled with my toys.

But: “There’s no place like home.”

And I believed it.