It's not hard to recognize the moment when I grew up. Though on reflection, perhaps there are two moments. One I can't remember, though it did happen, and another dependent on the first, which I can.
Let's start with what I can remember.
I am lying in bed asleep in my room in my parents’ house. My brother is in the room next door. I'm sleeping soundly. Feeling warm. A smile on my face. In my bedroom under the red, white and blue ‘70s bedspread with the red bunk on top. In the home where I loved to read, to play games, to have fun with Paddington our Old English sheepdog, swim in the pool and eat the left-overs in the fridge on Sunday mornings, of mum's dessert from Saturday night's dinner party.
And then I wake up. And I'm no longer there in that room. That safe happy place. I'm in another room. One I don't recognize at first. Yet it is my room. And then I remember the result of that other moment. The one I can't recall. I no longer live with mum and dad and my brother and dog in our home. This is where I live now. With my mum and my brother in this new place, this apartment that isn't our home. And I wish I could go back into the dream where I was warm and safe and happy, and things were how they used to be.