Home

There came a time I realised I had become a guest in a house that was once
called home.
After spending years in Japan, I found myself with another place I could also
call home. The old one had always been there, holding every childhood
memory, every laugh, every tear. It watched me learn how to walk, take my
first steps, and grow into the person I am today. Then came a new home.
It didn’t watch my first steps as a child, but it watched me take my first steps
into adulthood. It saw me making mistakes, learning from them, and figuring
life out on my own.
In my old home, there were always people looking after me. They reminded
me to eat, asked where I was going, and scolded me whenever I did
something wrong.
In my new home, no one tells me what to do. The freedom I once wished for
came with a loneliness I never expected. It made me realize how much I
missed the little things I used to overlook.
When I finally returned to my old home, everything felt familiar, yet somehow
different.
The house no longer looked the way I remembered it. Not only that, the
people had changed too. Not in the way they acted, but in the quiet ways time
leaves its mark. There were more strands of gray hair, a few more wrinkles,
and faces that looked just a little older than when I had left.
All of those changes happened while I wasn’t there.
I felt like a guest in the place that once knew me best.
I used to believe that home was a single place waiting for me to return. Now I
see it differently. Home isn’t somewhere that stays the same forever. Just like
me, it continues to grow and change. Maybe having two places that feel like
home isn’t something strange after all. Maybe that’s what growing up means.