On our first full night in the bungalow, Emma lay beneath her recovered moon blanket and looked around the small room as though it were a palace. The curtains were inexpensive, the paint near the window was uneven, and her replacement headphones rested beside a thrift-store lamp. She asked whether the bed would remain hers if she became sick again, then whether anyone could sell her belongings or give away her room. I showed her the folder containing the deed, Grandma’s letter, and the court-stamped order, and promised she would never have to earn her place there. For years, I believed home was wherever family allowed us to remain. Grandma understood that a real home was not a favor, a debt, or a reward for obedience. It was the place where my daughter could close her eyes without wondering whether everything she loved would still be there when she woke.