We hosted Trish's 17-year-old niece this weekend. We've done this a few times, putting her up in my computer room, which doubles as a guest room for such occasions. It's no trouble at all; she's the least intrusive house guest imaginable. But it's funny: once she's set up shop in that room—normally the room I feel most at home in—it becomes entirely her space.
I went in there yesterday, while she was out with a friend, to grab the vacuum cleaner from the closet. I had time to note a few items scattered about: the small duffle bag she had brought; a couple of shopping acquisitions; a sketchbook. But I didn't stick around long. I felt like an interloper in my own place.
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