WALLS OF OUR OWN

“Our house is different from usual houses,” my daughter remarked one quiet afternoon. Curious, I asked her why. What did she see that made her say that? A flicker of doubt crept into my mind—was it because our house doesn’t look good enough?

She paused, looking at the empty walls. “We don’t have pictures hanging, no certificates like the ones we see in other homes.”

Her words sank in, and I fell silent. She was right. Our walls were bare, unadorned by the usual symbols of family history or success. As I let her observation settle in, I realized she was seeing something I’d grown blind to.

I looked around, tracing the quiet expanse of blank walls with my eyes. There were no smiling portraits, no testaments to academic triumph, no framed memories—just empty spaces waiting to be filled. And in that emptiness, I felt a sudden pang, and also an invitation: to reflect, to question what these walls could say about who we are.

We had been renting since 2006, the year we got married. It took many long years before we could finally have a house we could call our own. Our journey began in a tiny apartment—just a small living room, a modest dining area, one bedroom, and a cramped comfort room. It was enough for our little family. My daughter was still small then, and in those early days, there was no room for complaints.

The only real problem was the ceiling. Whenever it rained, water would drip steadily onto our heads, like a reminder of our fragile shelter. Worse still, the landlord controlled the water supply. There were times we had to sneak in when they were away, just to turn on the water valve and have enough to wash or cook. The landlord held all the power, and we had no choice but to comply. At any moment, they could tell us to leave, and we would have nowhere else to go.

Back then, the rent was still manageable because living expenses weren’t as high, and my husband and I both had jobs. We weren’t earning much, but it was enough for our small family to get by. Eventually, though, the constant tension and the landlord’s whims forced us to move. We had to find a place that felt less precarious—a space where we could breathe, build a future, and perhaps one day, have a home we could truly call our own.

However, the new place we moved into was by a creek. It was more spacious, yes, but far from well-furnished. We did our best to make it feel like home, decorating with what little we had to create a cozy corner in the world. But there was no denying that the place was far from perfect. I don’t want to say it was ugly—it feels too harsh, too unkind—but the truth was hard to ignore.

When it rained, the creek’s foul smell would drift up into the house, filling our small space with a sense of pity and discomfort. Even water was a constant struggle. We had to fetch it from outside the house, since we didn’t have a faucet, lugging buckets back and forth as part of our daily routine.

Yet, somehow, we tried to find our peace in that place. The walls may have been thin, the air heavy with the creek’s odor, but we held on to a simple hope: that one day, we would have a home that felt truly our own.

Then came another move—a fresh chapter, another chance to find something better. This time, the apartment was a definite improvement: more decent and far away from the creek, perched a little higher. It was more expensive, and we had to stretch our budget to make it work, but somehow we managed.

Yet the new apartment came with its own challenges. The air was heavy with humidity, and the cabinets quickly grew moldy. Cockroaches and rats scurried around, finding their own place in the damp corners of the house. The walls felt perpetually moist, carrying the faint, ever-present smell of dogs from somewhere nearby. And water was still a constant worry—another routine of scarcity and improvisation.

Another thing: there was a constant, uneasy feeling that the place wasn’t entirely safe. Even in the quiet moments, I sensed that beneath the calm surface, trouble could come knocking at any time, like a shadow lurking just out of sight. In that uncertainty, we held onto each other a little tighter, weaving hope into the spaces between our worries. We clung to the dream that one day, we’d have a home that was truly ours.

From there, we had to move yet again. We packed up our things with hopeful hearts, thinking this next move would finally be an improvement. But it turned out to be the worst decision we’d ever made. The new place was tiny—smaller even than our very first apartment—and though it was cheaper, it felt as though our lives had grown cheap, too.

We didn’t stay long. The cramped space was suffocating, making it hard to breathe. The contrast was almost cruel: from the outside, the house looked beautiful, with a green lawn that hinted at something cozy and welcoming. But inside, it was a world of tight corners and shrinking air, a place that felt less like a home and more like a box we were trying to fit our lives into. Eventually, we had to let it go, setting our sights once more on the hope that somewhere out there, a real home was waiting for us.

The next apartment was still small, but somehow it felt manageable. It was during this time that my daughter started attending kindergarten, and we stayed there for a while, slowly making the place feel like home. When she needed her own space, we moved again, though we stayed within the same building—from a cramped single-room apartment to one with two small bedrooms. It wasn’t much bigger, but to us, it felt like a small triumph—a little more room to grow, a little more room to breathe.

This was the apartment where we settled in for the longest. We learned to navigate the daily struggles, and more importantly, we found ways to build memories in those tight spaces. It was there that I gave birth to my second child.

Life seemed to be turning a corner. Our expenses became more manageable when I started working at a regular school, and my husband launched his own small business. We were beginning to breathe a little easier—until the pandemic arrived and the world ground to a halt. The lockdown brought uncertainty back into our lives, but by then, we had learned how to weather the storms together.

Now, with our second child growing up fast, we needed a bigger space—somewhere he could run around, and somewhere my husband could continue his business. Thankfully, we found a place that felt just right: spacious enough for a family, with a small store, and close to the road. It was everything we needed, and we moved in with a hopeful heart.

But it was still the pandemic, and money was tight. At first, we thought we could handle the rent, but soon reality caught up with us. The expenses piled up higher than we’d expected, and when the landlord raised the rent even more, it pushed us past the breaking point. As much as we loved the place—the comfort, the freedom, the small victories—it was no longer sustainable. So we packed up once again, forced to find a new strategy, and carried the lessons of yet another home in our hearts.

Another apartment. Again. It was still the pandemic, so finding a place wasn’t as hard as it might have been. We managed to find one that wasn’t cheap, but not too expensive either—just right for our budget. At first, it felt like a blessing. The place was safe, and we could finally breathe a little easier.

But problems soon followed, as they often do when you’re renting. We clashed with the landlord, and it was hard to tell if it was really us who were the problem, or if landlords just always find a way to remind renters that they hold the power. In the end, we had no choice but to find somewhere else, quickly.

We ended up in a small apartment yet again, but it didn’t last. It was the shortest stay we ever had. The place simply wasn’t right for a family, and so we packed up once more, determined to find somewhere better.

Then, a new apartment came along—one that felt like our best find yet. It was a place where we knew the owner, and for a moment, that small connection gave us hope. But even that was fleeting. The water, once a trickle of inconvenience, became a relentless battle—worse than any we’d known before. It pushed us to the edge, testing every ounce of our patience, until we had no choice but to leave once more. And with every leaving, we felt smaller and diminished. I started asking questions—why? Why did it feel like no matter where we went, we were always being pushed out, always fighting for the bare essentials? Why did we have to keep moving, never able to settle down and just call a place our own? I didn’t want to keep renting forever, drifting from one temporary shelter to the next like a wanderer in search of home.

And then, when I least expected it, the opportunity finally came—a chance to own our own home. It felt like a miracle, an answered prayer that had taken years to reach me but had arrived at exactly the right moment. At first, I was hesitant. When a friend offered me the house, doubt crept in. Could I really afford it? Maybe I could manage the payments at first, but what about later, when the excitement wore off and the bills kept coming?

So, I asked for signs. I prayed, surrendering all my worries. I believed that if this house was truly meant for us, God would make a way. He had always provided before—why wouldn’t He now? With that faith, I said yes. It wasn’t just a decision; it was a leap of trust, an act of faith that the Lord would carry us through, no matter what. Looking back, I see now that all those moves, all that searching and uncertainty, were part of a bigger plan—one that taught us patience and faith. Every struggle, every temporary stop along the way, shaped our journey and prepared us for this moment. After so many years of drifting from one apartment to another, of packing up and leaving yet again, we finally have a place to call home.

Looking at the empty walls, I wonder if I’m still processing it all—or if it just hasn’t fully sunk in yet. We finally have our own house. A home that’s truly ours, with no landlords peering in, no looming threat of eviction. It’s a strange, exhilarating kind of freedom. Now, I get to shape this space, to fill it with memories and stories that belong to us alone. So I’ve started hanging up photos—each one a small testament to our journey, each one a promise that this is where we’re meant to be.

My husband walked in, saw the photos I’d put up on the wall, and paused for a moment to take them all in. Then he turned to me with a smile and said, “Maybe the whole wall will end up covered in photos.” I laughed, but deep down, I knew he was right. And I didn’t mind one bit.

I like to stand there, just staring at those photos on the wall. Little by little, these empty walls will fill up with memories, just like the walls I grew up with—walls that my mom covered with our certificates, faded pictures tucked behind the glass of the cabinet, photo frames lined up on the shelves. Even though the pictures were often blurry, and even though I never looked photo-perfect, they were still there—small reminders of where we came from and how far we’d come. And so the photos that I will put on the walls of our own home will be just like those—snapshots of our messy, beautiful journey, proof that we finally belong somewhere.

Dr. Roselle G. Aniceto is an English teacher at the University of Baguio Science High School in the Philippines, where she teaches literature. Inspired by the literary texts she shares with her students, she feels motivated to create and share her own work. She also serves as the adviser for the English Club at the school. As part of her mission as a teacher, she also serves as a trainer and resource speaker.