I’m about four in this memory. It’s evening. I’m standing in the playground with my mother and brother, and right in front of us is our apartment block. I point to the rows and rows of tiny balconies.
“Which one is our home?” I ask. I know my apartment is on the second floor, but cannot decide which one.
“That’s ours,” says my mother, pointing at the one toward the middle. The room lights are on, and I recognize the curtains by the window.
“That’s our home!” My face lights up with delight. “That’s ours!”
It’s a special feeling to spot my home among so many similar balconies. I beam at the one my mother pointed to, and repeat to myself that that’s my home and we’re now heading back there.