After my parents sold my childhood home, I started to think about what it meant to me. Packing everything and watching the movers move the furniture out piece by piece was harder than expected. I felt like something was taken away from me. A box full of memories thrown away. Now, these memories only exist in my head for as long as I can hold on to them. I was curious to know if people would remember their childhood homes. I asked my friends and family to draw their childhood home from memory, I then googled their floor plans online, put them side by side, and compared them. After looking at these floor plans, I felt like I learned more about them, it felt very intimate. There is a certain level of vulnerability in showing people where you live, you don’t just show it to anybody. Behind those walls contain secrets, dreams, nightmares, pleasure, pain, laughter, and tears. A house is a container, that holds fragments of the past.