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Read the text.
I found the switch and the bulb sputtered to life, dimmed briefly, then settled, casting a faint, yellow glow. The walls had clearly been painted white but were now smudged and stained from years of neglect. The ceiling, pocked with bubbling paint, sagged in the far corner under a brown water stain. At least it's not any worse than the rest of the apartment, I thought, shuffling back to my mom in the kitchen.
"What do you think? Don't you just love your room?" she asked eagerly, her tone slightly too chipper given the circumstances. She didn't really give me time to answer, handing me the worn, buckling box labeled "KITCHEN" that overflowed with plastic cups and ceramic plates.
I forced a smile and shrugged.
"Help me put the silverware away," urged Mom. I joined her behind the counter. She ruffled my hair and handed me a bundle of mismatched forks and spoons, bound with a rubber band. I got to work, sorting them by size while carefully considering the available drawers.
I thought about the last place. And the one before that. None of them had ever really felt like home to me. Not since Tampa, anyway.
"I have a good feeling about this," she said. "So much better than Louisville, and your teacher couldn't have been any nicer. You'll make a million friends here, don't you think?" She smiled widely, but her eyes looked sad. "What should I wear tomorrow?" Mom continued, "I want to have a great first day."
What is the most likely reason why Mom seems so pleased with the apartment?