The new apartment was on the sixth floor, in a building with large floor-to-ceiling windows. On the first morning, I woke up to sunlight pouring into the room like a river. There was no barking of the neighbor’s dog, no creaking pipes, no smell of dampness. Only silence, soft and warm as a blanket. I sat on the edge of the new bed—not an old mattress, but a real bed with a wooden frame—and looked at the city.
The sky over the city was so big I wasn’t used to it. It seemed endless, like my dreams that I had hidden for so long. That day I did what I had been putting off for years. Opened the laptop, found the old folder hidden behind bills, resumes, and rejection letters. The folder labeled “Designs”.
Inside were interior sketches, blueprints, ideas I created at night when I couldn’t sleep due to the boiler’s hum. Drawings I showed to Dad when I still believed he would support me. He said then: “Cute, but when will you get serious? Design is not a job, it’s a hobby.”
Now I got serious. I updated my portfolio, sent it to design studios, registered on freelance platforms, launched a small website. The money Dad returned, I used not only for rent and living but also for a start. I bought a graphic tablet, paid for courses on modern design software, invested in advertising my portfolio. This was my chance, and I wasn’t going to miss it.
Weeks passed, then months. I worked nights creating sketches for clients who found me through the site. My projects were simple: re-planning small apartments, designing children’s rooms, decorating offices. But each one was a step forward. I learned to speak with clients, defend my ideas, ask for decent pay. I learned to believe in myself.
One afternoon I got a call. An architectural studio, “New Project,” saw my work on one of the platforms. They were launching an affordable housing project for young families and were looking for a designer who knows how to turn small spaces into cozy and functional ones.
— We need someone who understands how to live in limited conditions, — said the director at the interview, a man with thick eyebrows and a kind smile. — Your work shows that you know how to make a small space a home.
— I know what it’s like, — I replied, looking him in the eye. — I lived in a semi-basement for four years. I know how to turn a corner into a bedroom and a crate into a table.
He nodded, and I saw respect in his eyes. When I left their office with a contract in my hands, I put on the same coat that Mom once called cheap and childish. Now it seemed perfect to me. This wasn’t just a contract. It was proof. Proof that I wasn’t the failure they thought I was. That the semi-basement didn’t define who I am. That I can create, dream, live…
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