It is strange to come home as an adult.
Abraham and I are visited my parents and family in Florida last week. It is, of course, always good to see everyone, but the place doesn’t feel like home anymore. That’s a sure sign I’m an adult. My home is where I live with my husband and children.
My parents no longer live in the house I grew up in or even the house I lived in after college. I don’t have a room here; Abraham and I are sleeping on Noah’s (my little brother who lives at home) mattress on the floor. That’s a sure sign I’m an adult; there is no physical place for me here.
Many of my best friends have moved away, and some of them have returned or live close by. I visited with them, met their children, heard about their love lives. Sort of like high school, but Abraham gave me a 7pm curfew. I never had a curfew in high school.
We flew down with my sister, who visited but for less time than we did. We flew back alone. And I was sick (103• fever when I got back to my house…). How I lived I don’t know. But I have no shame after lying around with Abraham on the nasty floor of the Atlanta airport during our layover.
Since we’ve been back to our home, I’ve been sick. First strep throat and now a killer cold. All I really want is to be back home with my mom, watching soap operas with her, playing cards, using that weird wooden lap desk to catch up on school work, and drink-eating lipton tea from a packet. But I can’t go back. Even if I put myself in the place and did all the things, I can’t go back.