When Mommy asked, “Are you home?” I wanted to say “yes,” but I couldn’t. The word sat heavy on my tongue, too heavy to lift, too delicate to break. I stood in the hallway of my apartment, keys still in hand, shoes not yet off, silence creeping up behind me like a shadow. The lights were on. The air was still. Everything looked the same. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t. Home wasn’t.
I could hear her voice in my mind—soft, hopeful, tinged with the familiar warmth only a mother can offer. Her question echoed not just through the phone, but through every hollow space in my chest. “Are you home?” Such a simple question. A universal one. But my answer wasn’t simple. It couldn’t be.
Because what is home? Is it the place where you sleep? The place where you store your books and memories? Is it where you go when you’ve had a bad day? Or is it a feeling—of being understood, of being loved, of being seen for who you really are?
I looked around. The couch still had the blanket I tossed carelessly the night before. My coffee mug from this morning sat on the counter, half-full. The walls bore pictures of laughter, of moments long past, of people I don’t talk to anymore. The plants I tried to keep alive leaned towards the window, desperate for light. Just like me. And yet, for all the signs of life, the space felt empty. Not just of sound, but of meaning. It felt like a museum of someone I used to be.
I wanted to answer her, to lie maybe, to protect her from the ache in my voice. I wanted to tell her I was fine, that I had arrived, that everything was okay. But honesty swelled inside me like a tide. I couldn’t force it back.
“No,” I whispered. Not into the phone. Just to myself. “Not yet.”
Because I wasn’t home. I was inside a house, sure. A roof above my head, four walls around me, the usual markers of stability. But home is more than that. Home is where the soul can stretch out, unafraid. Home is where you don’t have to pretend. And for so long, I’ve been pretending—putting on a brave face, answering questions with half-truths, smiling when I wanted to scream. The world teaches us to say we’re fine when we’re falling apart. I’m tired of that.
“Are you home?” she asked again, her voice now more curious, maybe sensing the delay.
I took a breath. I walked over to the window, watching the city pulse below me. So many lights, so many people probably asking the same question in different ways. Looking for the same answer. A place to belong. A space that feels like safety.
“I’m here,” I replied finally. Not “home.” Just “here.” A truth I could manage. A piece of honesty she could hold without it breaking either of us.
I didn’t know how to explain the difference. How do you tell someone that the place you sleep feels foreign? That the silence in your own room sounds too loud? That you’re surrounded by your own things, yet feel like a visitor in your life?
But maybe she understood anyway. Mothers have a way of hearing what’s unsaid. There was a pause, and then she said, “Okay. Just let me know when you are.”
That was it. No judgment. No pressure. Just the soft landing of unconditional love. And suddenly, I wanted to cry. Not because I was sad, but because someone still believed in the version of me that could get there. That would one day find her way back to a place that felt like home.
I hung up and sat down on the edge of the bed. The weight of her words stayed with me. “Let me know when you are.” She wasn’t asking for proof. She wasn’t rushing me. She was just… waiting. With patience. With love.
Maybe that’s what home really is. Not a space. Not a structure. But the people who wait for you. Who check in, even when your answers are vague. Who listen between the pauses. Who know the weight of silence.
I looked around again. Nothing had changed—and yet everything had. Because now I knew what I was looking for. Now I knew that I wasn’t broken, just in transit. On the way. Still searching.
And that was okay.
Because one day, I’ll pick up the phone, and when she asks, “Are you home?” I’ll say, “Yes.” And I’ll mean it.
