When I was little, my parents and I lived in a restored log cabin. We were there for a full year while construction workers worked around us, tearing down walls and putting up new ones. One time, when the cabin was almost finished, my parents slept in a bedroom that was missing a wall. Only a thin blue tarp kept them inside. I always wondered what would have happened if my mother was a sleepwalker and walked right off the edge. It always seemed so strange to me to live in an incomplete house.

Of course, that was back when most things were complete. I had two parents who loved each other, a sister who was cute as a button, and two dogs that ran around happily. They call that a nuclear family.

I lived inside the American dream for the first nine years of my life, and it was wonderful. At five, six, seven, or nine, you don’t realize how lucky you are. Now as I look back, my childhood was so blissful I swear it could have been a dream. The sunlight hit my room as I woke up slowly, then ran down the stairs. In the kitchen I would find my dad grinding coffee beans.

“I see you,” he would sing-song, his back still turned. “You aren’t the quietest person in the world, you know. Have you ever smelled this before? Take a sniff, little one.”

I could have dreamt smelling the dark scent of the coffee, dipping my nose so far into the bag it left brown residue on the tip. I could have dreamt the way my mother would descend the stairs in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, her hair a mess, and the way she touched my dad on the shoulder as she wrinkled her nose at the coffee.

“It smells so good,” she teased, “but tastes like butt.”

“You said butt!” my sister would yelp at the counter, her mouth stuffed with cereal.

“BUTT! BUTT! BUTT!” we would yell together, my dad joining in and my mother smiling, rolling her eyes.

Summers were full of swimming lessons, fast food at Sonic, fishing in the pond, and seeing my grandparents. They would come down from Cape Cod and stay in our guest room. They loved each other like my parents did – two generations of nuclear family.

I remember so many inside jokes and fun times during those nine years. I remember thinking my family was so close that we could never break apart. At six, I didn’t know that “marriage” didn’t mean “forever.”

My dad videotaped every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every birthday. He videotaped the woodpile fire, building the barn when I was born, and getting his first grill. He videotaped his toes, my stuffed animals, and every Mother’s Day. Now that I have about a hundred converted VHS-to-CD discs, I watch them when I’m feeling nostalgic. I see all these memories and feel sad that I didn’t realize how idyllic my childhood was before it was gone for good.

“You won’t ever get divorced, will you?” I asked my mom and dad one afternoon. I was probably five. They looked up from their TV show and stared at me like I was insane.

“Of course not, sweetie. Why would you ask that?” my mom said.

“Because at school Alena said everyone’s parents get divorced.”

“It’s not true, not for most people,” my dad said without looking away from the TV.

“Promise you won’t?” I whispered. They must have heard something in my voice because they both looked at me at the same time with their full attention.

“Promise,” they said in unison.

They weren’t lying at the time.

How long does the American dream last? Could you live inside it your whole life? If anyone ever has, I hope they know how lucky they are.