By Ananda Cash
When I was seven, my parents decided it was time I had my own room. We have been living in a one bedroom apartment for seven years. This apartment had a lot of memories for us. It was the first time my mom had to run out of a fire with me as a baby, the first time I had to go to the hospital because I had smoke in my lungs, and the first time I smashed my thumb in between the gap of the metal front door. It was also the first apartment my grandmothers visited my parents, with me as their first child, it was a happy place for the three of us.
The new apartment my parents found was luckily only a few buildings away from our current one. The rooms were smaller, but it was the best offer at the time, so my parents took it. Days later we started moving. I held my box of karate trophies from my two years of being a karate kid and my medals I won in tournaments and from school. My mom was holding boxes filled with her clothes while my dad was trying to figure out how to move the beds and dressers. A week later we were all moved into the new apartment, and could never be happier.
Six years later, my parents decided to give me a sibling, a boy. Now that I have a sibling, I finally have someone to play with and troll when he gets older, but there was one problem. We now have four people living in a two bedroom apartment. Adding another person to our apartment would make the space feel cramped, especially since we had a seven year old pitbull. So it was time to move again.
My mom started looking for places while she was still pregnant with my brother. As my mom went apartment hunting, my mom had her baby shower, then she gave birth to my brother, the next thing you know, he’s already five years old. Time flew by when my mom was apartment hunting, mainly because she had to pause a few times to deal with work, or family issues. Looking for an apartment became impossible to do, but we made our two bedroom apartment work for us.
My parents were nice enough to share their room with my brother. Five years after my brother was born, it was time for me to start college. With me being away for a few months at a time, my parents came up with a plan. My brother would sleep in my room when I was gone, and when I came to visit for holidays or breaks, he would go back to my parents room. It worked for the first year, but the second year my parents were getting greedy.
In my room, I had an additional dresser and two night tables after my grandmother from my father’s side passed away. My mom told me to give one of the night tables to my brother so he could have a place for his toys. I was annoyed when my mom first asked me this, but I eventually caved in, seeing I had no other choice. It later on went from my brother having a night table, to one of my bookshelves, to him taking over my grandmothers old desk, which was now filled with all his old homework packets and random toys he would disperse all over my desk. I was starting to get upset with this new change, but I soon learned that I couldn’t be mad because of all the accommodations my brother had to make.
He never got the chance to have his own room or his own space, he always had to share with other people. I was fortunate enough to have my own space when I was growing up. So I put my selfish thoughts to the side and opened my room to my now seven year old brother. The hunt for a new apartment is still going on, but until we move out of this one, this apartment will still be called home.