06/14/2026
Before we added The Glory Suite, the house I grew up in had exactly three bedrooms.
Mom and Dad had one, which they eventually added a bathroom onto. Then there was the boys’ room. And the girls’ room. All of us shared one teeny-tiny hallway bathroom, and somehow we survived.
My sister and I are eight years apart, and I’m fairly confident sharing a bedroom with her kid sister was not high on her list of life goals. To be fair, once she started getting up early for classes or candy striping, it wasn’t high on mine either. Mornings involved thick clouds of Aussie hairspray in the purple can and what smelled like half a bottle of Liz Claiborne’s Realities perfume. Some days I’m pretty sure I’m still coughing from it.
At night, we’d get sent to bed. The boys would be down the hall, cracking jokes and carrying on. We’d join in from our room. A few minutes later, you’d hear Dad bellow, “Kids, be quiet. Don’t make me come in there.”
Silence would follow. Briefly.
Then the laughter would start again — quieter, but confident. And then you’d hear it: the pitter-patter of bare feet coming down the hall. Mom would peek her head into the room and say, very calmly, “If your father gets up, he’s bringing the spanking stick. Settle down and go to sleep.”
Message received.
Both rooms had bunk beds. My sister had the top bunk; I had the bottom. I wasn’t much of a doll kid, but you could barely see my bed anyway — it was completely overtaken by stuffed animals. Add in a couple of cats, and it was crowded, cozy, and absolutely perfect. Eventually, we’d fall asleep.
Only to be awakened the next morning at exactly 6:20 by Mom, peeking her head in with that grating, sing-song voice: “Riiiise and shiii-ine.”
And just like that, we did it all again.
We shared rooms until our older siblings left for college, complaining the whole time about not having our own space.
But once they were gone, you realized how much you had taken for granted. The noise. The chaos. The constant motion of life happening just outside your door.
Turns out, what felt crowded then was actually comfort. And what we thought we wanted — quiet, space, solitude — never quite replaces the sound of people you love falling asleep nearby.
