The real meaning of home

Home isn’t just a place where I sleep at night It’s a place I trust with all my heart. It’s where I feel loved the most, even on days when I’m grumpy, tired, or mad for no reason at all. When I walk through the door, it feels like a big invisible hug wrapping around me It’s cozy and warm, safe and sound, like nothing bad can reach me there. Almost every night we have overcooked salmon with microwaved white rice and simple boiled spices The salmon is usually a little too dry, and sometimes I have to drink a lot of water to swallow it, but it still tastes like home. The rice is fluffy in some spots and clumpy in others, and the spices are sprinkled on top like tiny dots of flavor. The smell fills the kitchen, mixing with the sound of plates clinking and chairs scraping against the floor Even though it’s the same dinner again and again I don’t really mind because we’re all eating it together at the same table talking about our days and laughing at small, silly things. My sister Amelia is always perched on the couch curled up like a cat watching her shows She sings along to the theme songs like she’s in a concert, even if she doesn’t know all the words Sometimes she’s loud and dramatic on purpose just to make us laugh. My brother Nate plays in a crate with his toys, crashing his cars into the sides like it’s a racetrack He doesn’t care if it’s too small. It’s his kingdom. My brother Jack is in the middle of an intense gaming fight, and I can hear the quick clicking of his controller from across the room. The house is never quiet, but it’s alive. And that’s why it’s my favourite place in the whole world.