I still remember the afternoon my oldest brought home a trembling stack of school art projects and my younger one decided the cardboard box was the perfect spaceship. Our small house felt suddenly full in a way that was wonderful and borderline chaotic. As a mom in my forties, I have learned to measure success not by spotless countertops but by the number of bedtime stories we squeeze in before lights out. Neighbors drop off extra toys, cousins come for sleepovers, and morning routines must happen without tripping over dinosaur figurines. Those everyday moments taught me to rethink space, not…