My mother still lives in the house I grew up in. Every now and then, she thinks of putting it on the market. Then she doesn’t.

I remember every incarnation of our home: the patchwork extensions, and how it grew to fit. I remember the majestic oak tree – gone for decades now – perfect for climbing, which used to stand in the centre of the backyard. Back in the day, fallen acorns would jam Dad’s lawnmower as he sweated up and down, swearing under his breath at every crunch.

I remember the mottled, old, mustard-brown linoleum of the kitchen floor I learnt to crawl and then walk on, and the abrasive, lime-green 1970s paint that used to line the kitchen walls – hidden now, under multiple layers of white, light grey and cream. I remember the peeling paint that once cracked across the ceiling directly above my top bunk in the room I shared with my older sister.

When all of us kids were teenagers, Mum decided the house needed a new coat of paint. Strapped for cash, she bought rollers and paint, and cheap sheets to drape the furniture in. Then any time we asked her to drive us somewhere – to the local mall, to Parramatta train station, to a friend’s house, she told us she’d take us after we’d painted a wall. That wall there, I painted before my friend Megan’s birthday party. This wall here, before going shopping for a dress to wear for the school play.

I remember the night I was given – or rather gave myself – my own room. My first activist act of occupation. After 13 years of sharing with my 18-months-older sister, she annoyed me so badly one night that I dragged my bedclothes into the study and slept on the floor. It was the smallest room in the house, tiny, but I didn’t care. On chilly mornings, because the sun rose on that side of the house, all of us kids would want to go in there to get dressed. When I officially moved my bed in, I triumphantly placed it underneath the window – exactly where the winter warmth hit.

My mother’s pantry, too, has seen several coats of paint. I remember the day I realised I was old enough to climb the sturdy shelves like a ladder and quietly slide my hand into the open packet of chocolate biscuits that was always sitting right at the top. That cupboard always seemed to be calling out to me to come, come, my dear, see what I have up here for you.

Stay somewhere long enough, a house becomes a living thing.

My adult life has been a succession of houses. Six residences in the past 10 years, all within three blocks of each other. The house you rent is the house you’re permitted. That hopeful list – must have bath, must have outdoor area, must have three bedrooms – is set against the reality of what you can afford, and what other people feel you can afford, or deserve.

There are limited ways you can mould it to fit. I have lived in a tumble-down house with a backyard half the size of a football field; in a tiny unit with crimson carpet and bright blue and sunflower-yellow walls; on quiet suburban back streets; and on a busy main road. Live somewhere temporarily enough, it’s really just a stay.