We grew up – five girls and a boy – in a small, cluttered house. A family of cutting-corners and making-ends-meet and hand-me-down clothing.

I shared a room with two of my sisters: Bridget – who stuffed her bra and stuck New Kids On The Block posters all over the walls – and Maggie. Maggie was skinny and read a lot of books. She was considered the genius of the family, destined for great things like becoming an astronaut, or curing cancer.

Our room was teeny-tiny, and yet, the biggest in the house. Our beds pushed against 3 of the 4 walls – I could reach out and touch Bridget’s head as we slept.

Down the hall, my eldest sisters Nina and Ellie shared a shoebox. They kept the door shut at all times, and you couldn’t go in there unless they said. They usually said no.

Sam, the only boy, had his own room which made us girls crazy. Sure, it was even tinier than the shoebox, and might have once moonlighted as a pantry, but it was still a tiny slice of privacy in an otherwise overloaded house.