I have a confession. I’m 47 years old, and I still live at home. Sort of; I do have my own apartment. But I still live in the house I was born into, a five-story Brooklyn Heights townhouse.
My mother lives there, too. She’s been there longer than I have (by a few months, anyway), but I have what feels like a special status in the building. I’m the only one who has lived on every floor since the building was divided into apartments in the 1950s.