In Toronto, home is a small, three bedroom apartment that is only slightly larger than the one-bedroom I currently occupy in DC. It is crowded, not because of its clutter, but because the small space acts as home to five people: my mom, my dad, my paternal grandmother (I call her Maa), my brother, and myself.

Granted, both my brother and I have moved out, but the apartment still holds our stuff — our extra clothes, furniture, books, keepsakes, our spirits. It is a small place for five, and when we’re all back for holidays or other events, I end up sleeping on the couch, but it is home.

I walked into the apartment this morning at 3am after being away for several months. As usual, the apartment was overheated (the central thermostat in the building seems to think that 77 degrees is an acceptable living temperature), was a little scattered, and the refrigerator was filled with leftovers. My brother had yet to arrive for the weekend, so I postponed my couch-sleeping for a night in my childhood bed. I found sheets for the bed, a duvet cover, a pillowcase, and crawled under the covers and fell into a deep sleep.

The sun was pouring through the small window in the room when I woke up; I had slept in until 9am, something I don’t do very often. There was already an extra toothbrush with my name on it waiting for me in the bathroom, and after freshening up, I crept into the kitchen to make breakfast.

My Maa walked into the kitchen as I was peering in to the refrigerator; I gave her a hug, she looked and me and said, “I’m happy you’re home.”

I looked around me at the small, cramped, overheated apartment, and then back at her. I hugged her again as I replied,

“I’m happy I’m home too.”

Home isn’t where you live. Home isn’t where you keep your stuff. Home is where you feel loved, where you feel at peace, where you feel right.

Here, today, I feel right. I feel at peace. And because of the people around me — my family, my friends, my neighbors, the strangers on the street — I feel loved. I’m home.