I’d never expected my parents to move out of our house — it hadn’t occurred to me that it was even an option to leave that house

I’ve passed by the house many times since we moved out of it 17 years ago, and each time I glance at what used to be my bedroom window, there’s a brief tug on my heart, asking me to remember. Sometimes I indulge the nostalgia and the little girl inside of me, thinking of Sunday afternoons in the front yard, riding our bikes along the uneven concrete path that wound around the front of the house. Sometimes I drive by without so much as a quick glance, in a rush to get to my destination, my mind filled with thoughts of supper and carpool and kids. But I always look, because there, in the redbrick house, with its cluttered carport and beautiful, strong magnolia tree, lie the memories of the first 18 years of my life.

I remember the day I found out we were moving. I was in the middle of my second year in Israel, on the cusp of adulthood and independence. My parents called to tell me that we would be moving out of the home I grew up in. I would be returning at the end of the year to a house I’d never seen.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d never expected my parents to move out of our house — it hadn’t occurred to me that it was even an option to leave that house. And yet, they were leaving, packing up my room and my siblings’ rooms, boxing up 21 years of collective memories.

I cried that day. The change was arriving hand in hand with my entrance into adulthood and the next stage of my life. All of the change was unwelcome. I wanted to hold on to the last remaining bits of childhood, and I wanted my room, our kitchen, the familiar smell, the safety of the only place I had ever called home.