I can see my favorite bakery from the balcony. I love the pineapple buns of this bakery, how the crunchiness of the crust contrasts the pillowy sweetness immersed within. They taste like home, the same feeling I get when my family and I slump into the sofa and laugh at the movie playing on the TV, eating a shared bag of chips.

Across the sidewalk lies my favorite park. The seesaw in this park has practically raised me, as many of my childhood afternoons were spent on it. The exciting and brief moments of height provided by the seesaw are magical, and it is the only one on earth that provides me with the safety and security of home.

It took me ten years to realize why I favor these two places. My initial memories of the two locations are of my mom’s indecisiveness when buying bread for the first time and my dad’s big hands on either side of the seesaw. The bakery and the park feel like home because of my family’s presence. Whatever place holds the memory of my family is where I call home. This revelation has allowed me to acknowledge how my family has shaped my perspective—my home consists of the snippets of love that are woven into an unvanquishable, familial quilt of happiness. To me, happiness does not have to be a grandiose statement or experience; it can be as ubiquitous and simple as a pineapple bun and a seesaw.