“Mom, when I grow up, I’m going to buy all those apartments right there, and me and you and Daddy and brother are all going to live in them.”

The apartments in question were nestled just down the hill from my Memaw’s house and just around the bend from my Nana’s. Even as I uttered this from the backseat as a five-year-old, I knew that I would never want to be far from my family, even when I “grew up.”

Fast forward about ten years when the search for colleges began. While I started by touring a college about seven hours from home, my ideal radius slowly but surely decreased to a maximum of three hours from home. I ended up choosing a school just two hours from my parents and only one from my extended family.

Fast forward another year and my parents moved an hour closer to my school. This home-loving girl’s heart smiled.

My grandmother frequently jokes that my older brother and I will likely end up moving into trailers in my parents’ backyard. While this is a bit of a stretch (but only just a bit), my brother’s and my desire to stay close to home is a reality, one we discuss often and remind our parents of whenever we have the chance.

And while I’ve always looked forward to the day I get to marry the man of my dreams and begin a life with him, the closer that day comes, the bigger the ache in my heart gets. Thinking about leaving my mom and my dad and my dog and my house and my room is enough to send me into a spiraling tornado of emotion. But I know this day will likely arrive, and my comments that I won’t ever change my last name or live with another man except my dad will disappear into a funny memory I joke about with my family and my future husband.

Despite the sadness I sometimes feel over the prospect of leaving home someday, I am equally overwhelmed with gratitude that “home” for me is a place I adore.

I have plenty of friends who could not wait to escape their parents’ houses and start a life of their own, one lived according to their own morals and standards. Meanwhile, my parents and I count down the days until I get to come home for breaks from school. When I’m upset or lonely or stressed, my first thought is often, “I just want to go home.” And when there’s overflowing joy in family parties or in even just the promise of a home-cooked meal, I think, “I can’t wait to be home.”

One of the most joyful experiences of my life was this past Christmas. My parents had just moved into our new house, and while I was so excited to live so close to my grandmothers and cousins again, I feared that our house would not yet feel like “home.” Meanwhile, my parents hustled to put up all of the usual Christmas decorations and more (as the new neighbors watched in awe of how quickly they pulled it all off), and my brother was sent home on leave, meaning the four of us and our beloved dog would wake up together on Christmas morning under our new roof.

I don’t think I stopped crying that whole day. My heart was so full.

The Christmas decorating was just one instance of countless that prove how focused my parents have been on making home something special for me, more than a place to sleep and eat. They have sacrificed completing their own tasks in order to talk with me over chips and dip about life and love; they have taken care of the dog I begged for and promised to bathe and feed and water; they have cleaned my clothes when I swore I would eventually take the full hamper to the laundry room; they have listened to me cry from exhaustion and stress and ordered me to bed after a big bear hug; they have encouraged me to follow my dreams and work to achieve them.

My love of home, at its roots, is a testament to my parents and their love for me. And I hope that somehow, my love of being home with them is something of a reward for all they’ve done for me.