1530 Ben Roe Drive is the unofficial fifth member of my family of origin. I say “unofficial” only because the therapists in my office might otherwise stop referring clients to my coaching practice, citing annoying evidence from their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. But between you and me, She’s as much a part of my family as anyone connected to us by birth or vows.

Mom and Dad chose Her as our family nucleus in 1970 when I was three and my brother was one. These were Her harvest gold and deep walnut brown Formica years, with an unexpected pop of color in the blended turquoise and green shag carpet that our puppy Chelsea’s paws disappeared into as she crawled from lap to lap.

These were the years of TV dinners, homemade meatloaf, and frozen vegetable medleys that I tried to hide under the lip of the kitchen table to avoid eating. There were Swanson’s chicken pot pies and frozen fish patties that even Chelsea wouldn’t help me eat, licking them and then “dewclawing her nose” at their grossness. I’d sit at the table for hours in a standoff, knowing I couldn’t have a sleepover with my friend Tobie if I didn’t eat my dinner. I could’ve joined the circus with my eventual ability to swallow those things whole.

Her walls held disco parties for my parents and their friends and clever birthday parties for my brother and me. Mom would set up a sheet in the doorway that led upstairs to have us “fish” for our goodie bags with a stick and rope, and once buried a treasure ches­­­­­­­t for us kids to excavate.

Summers were filled with tent camping in Her backyard where my friends and I would have fashion shows in our nightgowns, lighting the runway with flashlights. Out front, there were driveway lemonade stands that included donuts and penny candy that we marked up for profit. We played games of Horse and whiffle ball and pelted tennis balls against the garage door. Those days regularly ended with competitive piggyback races up the stairs at bedtime, my brother and I arguing over who could dibs Dad to assure a win.

To our friends, She was known as the Hostess House and it wasn’t because Mom was particularly doting with guests. She got that name because Her cabinets were filled with Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, and those crescent-shaped boysenberry pies that had as much glaze as there was “fruit.” There were twin packs of cupcakes in orange and chocolate with that signature braided white icing on top and cream injected centers.

It wasn’t all Clever, of course. As my brother and I got older and mouthier there was a recurring phrase that got us running to lock ourselves into the upstairs bathroom: “I’m going to get the belt.” And damn it if our parents didn’t follow through. I still wonder if their approach to discipline is what kept me out of jail or if it is what keeps me from speaking my mind, at times, when my truth starts trying to bubble up and out.

If our childhood there was rosy, then our teenage years were more like mauve. There were still lovely things like the annual Christmas tea party my mom hosted for my friends and me, and the tradition of posing for school dance pictures in our light-blue velvet wingback chair. But 1530 also bared witness to mischief as my brother discovered the laundry chute in his room made for a perfect escape to sneak ou­­t with his friends. The police visited over vandalized mailboxes and a fake ID. Mom’s friend reported that I had a mouth like a truck driver and when Dad opened the door abruptly after one of our fights and saw me flipping him off, he said I wouldn’t have any friends with that kind of attitude. ­­­­­­­Mom once cried to me that Dad said she looked like a spark plug in the new dress she excitedly modeled for him.

My memories there paused when I was away at college and in the early days of my marriage. My life’s backdrop moved to Santa Barbara for school and into an apartment and, eventually, a home in San Jose with my husband. It was then that our family home started to be filled with more things than people. Mom started buying “pretties” in threes: one for her, one for her mom, and one for me… even if we didn’t want or have room for the tchotchke in question. What the house came to lack in energy, She made up for with the other kind of volume.

She sprang to life again when grandchildren arrived. There were tea parties and sleepovers and Barbies and shows in the backyard that my mom would announce via megaphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls… introducing the Moore sisters.” The fashion shows and tents were back in action, as were the birthday parties with homemade yellow cake with fudge frosting made from scratch.

The grandkids are grown now too; off making lives for themselves, and 1530 has once again gone quiet. In recent years, the only excitement there has only been of the heartbreaking kind, as Mom’s five-year journey with Alzheimer’s has rendered her angry and helpless, losing most of the memories that would help me believe that she still knows it has been a beautiful life and replacing them, instead, with wild and paranoid ideas that create chaos and questions like, “Where is everyone?” when all her loved ones are gathered in the same room.

On December 6 we made the excruciating decision to move Mom into memory care. It was a day characterized by cortisol and active grieving as I had to trick the person who’s been my greatest fan, supporter, and friend my whole life to leave the place she created for each member of our family to feel loved and celebrated to now be cared for by strangers.

Dad is home alone now and ready for a move of his own, so my daily visits with him are equal parts company and tactical. We pack each box with items previously cherished, when Mom could still cherish, and, with them, a molecule of acceptance for us to aggregate as we reminisce on all that was at 1530 Ben Roe, and what still is.

I’m going to miss Her. I already do. In a way that contorts my face to the point that my iPhone keeps giving me the error message: “Face not recognized, please try again.”

I am trying.