Growing up, my grandparents’ home was always a place of sanctuary and safety. It became my second home—a place where I could be myself, let my guard down, and where my nervous system had an opportunity to relax. I felt complete here.

While I do not remember every photograph on the wall, I can tell you how it smelled, how it sounded, and how it felt. The softness and ’80s-style lingering furniture, the piano that never got played, the doves that cooed through the kitchen windows every morning, the 110-degree weather that suffocated my mom and me (we are used to Washington State weather), the laughter, time spent in the kitchen, family dinners, the bearable evening heat with twinkle lights lining doorways, the fruit trees in the backyard, and the clutter of treasures I wish I had appreciated in middle school after my grandma passed—before it became someone else’s home.

My cousins were raised here. I was always a visitor in a fantasy world, but it felt like I was home. I think the fantasy was a good thing for me, but I now have a bit of envy of the relationships they built with my grandparents, especially my grandma. My relationships with my grandparents were meaningful; I just know that I remember the safety I felt with my grandpa growing up over any other man in the universe.

After my grandma passed away, my uncle and his wife moved in to take care of my grandpa. After he passed away at 92, my uncle bought the house from my aunt and my mom, and it became my uncle, his wife, and her daughter’s home. I had not been back for over 10 years until recently.

Not to exaggerate, but a lot has happened since then. My uncle had a stroke, his wife became a different person, and my cousin took over taking care of his father in this home. Now, he lives here with his wife and two baby girls.

Visiting this time was a very different experience. I felt like a visitor in a home and a town where I grew up. The morning dove sounds were replaced with fans pulling in cool air. The yard had become dead, and the fruit trees were removed due to lack of upkeep and to prevent further infestation with rats. The carpet was ripped out, revealing the original cement floor throughout the house. There was a bare amount of unfamiliar furniture in the home, and the privacy of closets and bedrooms felt different. Not only did I sleep in the addition with my mom, but I was the age my mom was when we visited, when I was a child.

And there were so many similarities.

The kitchen was used, and we spent time there. My cousin and his wife cooked for us, and we laughed so much together. There were children being raised there, and safety was being formed for those little ones. I’ve never seen littles as happy as their daughters—their two-year-old was always smiling.

I left feeling at peace, refreshed, and relaxed, while also holding a little bit of envy that he gets to be the one who raises his children there—to experience the neighborhood and continue building their life there. I wasn’t able to move around the home as freely as I used to. However, I am looking forward to going back and continuing to see his family grow in this sanctuary, and creating more happy memories.