I remember the first fly I ever caught here. It was buzzing around the pantry, bold and loud. I was so nervous my hands shook. But I did it. Now, weeks later, I have a little row of them on the windowsill—tiny, silent trophies. It’s not much to look at, but to me, it’s proof. Proof I can do something. Proof I belong here. Sometimes, you measure a home not in square feet, but in the quiet victories no one else sees. (Don’t worry, I clean them up after.)