The family home isn’t typically something you quit. The leaving is brought upon you. It is a rite of passage to make your own way in the world when the time comes – or when your parents kick you out.
Growing up, my parents never forced me and my older brother out of our bungalow in Hounslow, but we weren’t encouraged to live there for ever either. Accordingly, when my older brother turned 18, he went off to university and never moved back.
Yet, the family home always had a special pull for me. Our parents encouraged us to spend time together when we were there: mealtimes were eaten as a family, TV viewing was communal and doors were rarely closed. When I went to university at 18, I knew that my filthy and often isolated student digs were temporary – my real home was back in London and I was grateful that I could return whenever I wanted to.
It was my mum who made our home special. Her presence was felt everywhere – in the mosaic shower tiles she painstakingly laid, in the airy conservatory where she would paint, in the wonky topiary hedge she cut and in the fully stocked fridge.
When I was 19 and she died, I came home. She had been ill for the past four years, going through cycles of cancer treatment and remission, and the house felt as if she was still living there, even if she could never set foot in it again. Her artist’s palette was still wet with oil paint from before she had been moved into the hospice; her favourite red leather shoes were by the front door; I could smell a waft of her perfume when I opened the bathroom cabinet.
I yearned for her and because I would never see her again, I settled for the next best thing: her home. In the months following her death, I would come back regularly, checking in on my dad and urging him to go shopping and start cooking proper meals. Three years after her death in 2016, I was unemployed and I moved back permanently. As I looked for work, I would make sure the fridge was full, that the meals were eaten together and that there was a family presence in this home again.
Unfortunately, two sad men living in a bungalow are less of a family and more of a sitcom setup. I could feel my personal life faltering – social dates were easy to flake on when I could just stay in, clinging on to these last vestiges of feigned comfort – and I knew my dad wanted me to get on and live my life, rather than stay trapped in a sense of loyalty to our grief.
Eventually, in 2018, I got a job I actually enjoyed. The daily rhythms of commuting and colleagues took me out of the house and after a year’s worth of therapy giving me confidence, I knew it was time for me to gain proper independence. I started saving to rent my own place and in December that year, I packed up my bedding, the kitchen cutlery that I had stolen from old housemates, a handful of family pictures, and left.
I opted to live alone – a fiscal catastrophe but I couldn’t bear to wash up anyone else’s dishes again. The first few months were hard. Every morning, as I got ready for work and looked at the pictures of my mum I had put up, she stared back blankly. Still, I invited my friends over for housewarming dinners, I had a birthday party in my little living room, and as summer arrived in 2019, the flat was holding its own memories and had started to feel like home.
Next year will be 10 years since my mum died. My dad has met a wonderful partner and our family home is changing. The pictures of my mum have largely come down and have been replaced with new snapshots; her clothes and scent are gone. Only the fixtures remain, and even they are starting to look worn.
But, I am glad that things have changed. No one should be made to live in a mausoleum. My dad deserves to make and celebrate new memories, just as my brother and I do. Since leaving, I have realised that the sense of home my mum created isn’t just a place, it is something she instilled in us. I can make it in my flat now and wherever I move to next. Home is in places and it is in people, just as my mum is in pictures she will always live on in me.
Ammar Kalia is the Guardian’s global music critic