I come from a little red house filled with noise. This house had scratched brown tile, water-stained wood floors, peeling wallpaper, and a basement that loved to flood. Inside were six small kids with four bedrooms. Big maple trees stood proudly in our front yard, ash tree branches dangled over the driveway, and my favorite crabapple tree blossomed pink flowers every year around my birthday. Of course, this meant endless leaves to rake every fall. 

I come from sleepovers in my brothers’ room—all six of us cuddled up in sleeping bags. American Girl Dolls, Legos, Barbies, board games, and books scattered our floors. Summer nights meant games of “capture the flag” and snow days kept us building kingdoms and sledding down the miniscule hill in the front yard for hours. 

I loved my house—it was a safe space to come home to and a portal that transformed me into a sparkly city girl as soon as I slipped a plastic pink high-heel onto my blonde-haired Barbie. My bedroom walls were hand-painted by my dad with pink stripes and my mom’s drawing of a cat hung in the hallway. The cracks and bumps in our driveway made my bike and scooter bounce as a fun prequel to my almost daily rides around the neighborhood. 

I come from ice cream and a movie on Friday nights, dinners every Sunday at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and a snack waiting for me when I got home from school. We went to Mass every Sunday morning and excitedly picked out donuts for a breakfast treat afterwards; I quickly devoured my chocolate ring with sprinkles the second we got back home. An energetic chocolate lab puppy was always there to greet us; he soon grew abnormally large, becoming our best friend and most loyal companion. 

I come from sacrifice. Two selfless people met in Philadelphia and moved to Wisconsin to begin a journey that would empty their pockets. These parents believed so strongly in their faith that they were willing to put their own desires aside to provide their six children with a Catholic education until they graduated high school. There were sleepless nights, mountains of stress, and hushed worries behind closed doors. They wanted to give their children the very best, but costs stood in their way. I remember thinking my mom got a job at Land’s End for fun, something to do, as if taking care of six young children wasn’t enough. I can still picture the light pink sweater she wore on her first day. My dad left for days at a time to travel for his job, something he never enjoyed. However, he always made sure to send lots of pictures and facetime us often, telling us about the food he ate and his time in Charleston, Portland, Toronto, Knoxville, or Plano. They supported each of our every endeavors, spending countless hours in the car to drive us to gymnastics, ballet, basketball and volleyball practices, ice skating lessons, swim team practices, and so much more. I was never told I couldn’t do something and through every success and failure I knew I had at least seven people who would still cheer me on for whatever I encountered next. My parents taught us discipline and respect, but they supported me when my elementary math seemed impossible and when I didn’t make the volleyball team as a teenager. They are the perfect example of hard work, and I am proud to be their daughter.

Most importantly, I come from innocence and bliss. I had no idea of the hardships my parents endured. I was more concerned that we were having green beans with dinner and not carrots, as anything green was my biggest enemy. I rode the bus, went to school, came home, went to my dance classes, played in the playroom, and then ate dinner with the entire family. I was so happy. I never cared about trying on bins of hand me down clothes from my older sister, although repeatedly dressing and undressing was a tiring process. My favorite meal was a casserole made of tuna fish and cream of mushroom soup, and my favorite get away vacations were our road trips to Pennsylvania to visit my grandma. My favorite memories of my childhood are the ones with my siblings, something that lacks all materialism. Looking back, I wish I expressed more gratitude, but I want my parents to know now that they provided us with all we needed and more, and that their love for us and our love for each other is their greatest success yet. 

It’s funny, our house looks a lot different now. The house remains red, but marble counters fill our kitchen, our floors are a real, caramel-colored wood, and our couch reclines in four different spots. The maple, ash, and crabapple trees are gone, along with our playset and trampoline. The driveway isn’t covered in chalk markings; our toys are either packed up in bins or given away. My walls are now painted gray, and I eat ice cream whenever I want. We watched our chocolate lab fade away and eventually said goodbye, leaning on each other to try and patch up a missing piece of our family. 

The walls may be painted a different color, some knocked out completely, but they will forever hold the memories, arguments, forgiveness, and love of an eight-person family inside of them. My heart often aches to return to what I come from, especially now that four of the kids live all over the country. I’m still happy and enjoy my new lifestyle in a different place on my own. But even if we move away, I’ll always come from that little red house and the family in it, shaping the woman I am today.