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Aren’t houses strange? This place that is carpet and drywall is a living, breathing piece of your history. My housing journey has been pretty straightforward – childhood home, college dorm, college apartment, then a few apartments through my early 20s. But they’re not just places, are they,  dear reader?

My childhood home was the shelter for Beanie Babies, the place Santa still visited through 2014, the site of prom pictures, the sanctuary to cure homesickness (thanks in part to home cooking and four different dogs), and the foundation for three little girls to follow their big dreams.

My college dorm was where I had my first hangover, where I got to try being an “adult,” where I downloaded Spotify, made my first Dean’s List.

My college apartment was the place of eggy sandwiches, meg bongs (beer!), the third generation hand-me-down couch, and the place where my best friends refused to be without me in their lives. Forever.

My early 20s apartments were where I first cried over a student, where I confirmed my love of wine, where I hosted pregames and Game of Thrones watch parties, where I took home my angel, Fin the mutt.

And now. My sweet, quiet apartment. Where I came after I got engaged, married, and honeymooned. Where we’ve hosted parents, siblings, and dear friends. Where my husband and I have made countless vodka sodas just because. Where we’ve spoken words we’ve never said to anyone. Where we’ll soon be leaving.

And that’s it? I’m just supposed to give this place filled with love, despair, hope, and humor to whomever will sign a lease? I’m just supposed to look at a house, decide I want to buy it, and make it mine? Whose precious history lies in my future?