The House I Thought I'd Own

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When I was younger, I imagined I'd own a cozy home by 35. I'm 41 now, still renting, watching friends post their “just closed!” keys. I’ve saved, then spent, then saved again. Each year, prices rise, and my hope shrinks. I thought adulthood came with bricks and a mortgage. But sometimes, shelter is peace, not property. I light candles in this small rented kitchen and tell myself: home is where you feel steady. The walls may not be yours, but your life still is.