To say that I come from one world would be completely inaccurate. I grew up in two distinct houses, each one enclosing their own distinct world. I spend half of my time in one world, the other half in another, and whatever time remaining traveling between them.

One of my worlds rests on the Northern tip of Capitol Hill. Six kids, each with their own teenage eccentricities and complications can be found within the walls of this world. They look at each other. Stepsister, stepbrother, stepmother, stepfather. An enormous black Newfoundland stares up at me. Without socks, my toes squish into splattered slobber that dribbles from her panting mouth. The unfamiliarity of each of us lingered as we unpacked our boxes. I can be found in the middle of the household hierarchy, with three older and two younger siblings. In this world, two are biological and three are not. The prefix “step” in front of these siblings is always omitted.

A year later, my cell phone buzzes with a text message that reads “dinner.” Our modern-day “Brady Bunch” roars with commotion as the inhabitants of this world gather and began loading their plates. Circled around an oversized table, we loudly discuss the newest gossip as our zoo-keeping parents listen and shake their heads. I looked at my siblings, those old and new, and decided that “mixed” was the best type of family. I couldn’t get a word in at dinner, but I listened, and that was okay.

It is the third day in this world, and so the timer goes off. Jake, Mia and I gather our baggage and head for the car. We drive across town and up another hill before catching a glimpse of our second world, along with a tiny pair of gleaming brown eyes in the front window.

Smells of home-cooking and lit candles instantly welcome me into my second world. The pitter-patter of eight-year-old steps approaches, and Maren throws her arms around her three “half” siblings, a prefix that is also always omitted. I can see that she has been crying, but I’m not surprised. Three days is far too long for her to be an only child.

I unpack the things that I have brought for these three days. An exhale follows that can only truly be known by someone who has also lived in two worlds at the same time. It is an exhale that relieves, but at once torments because it reminds me that in another three days, this world must be exited again and the other entered. The abstract thought of standing still encroaches upon my two worlds. No packing, no moving, no choosing. I love my two worlds. However, I dream of having just one.