“Just made it back into Boston”, I texted my mom as I got off the bus at South Station after Thanksgiving break. I had the strange urge to tack on “Thanks for having me!”. I literally felt the urge to thank my mother for letting me come to my own home for a few days, as I was some distant relative passing through.

It got me thinking, when does home become “my parents house”?

Besides my mom, dad, and sister, there is nothing tying me to New Jersey. The high school friends I keep in touch with rarely are home anymore (with the exception of the one I live with), my old high school bears a new crop of teachers and this years seniors were freshman when I graduated. My old haunts don’t beckon me, suburbia offers no thrill. My childhood bedroom only holds my collection of books and various trinkets, but not much else. Fairfield, NJ retains the title of “home” simply because the three most important people in my life happen to live there.

So where is home?

Boston definitely feels like home, as I’m in the beginning of my third year here. It’s starting to feel familiar, especially the neighborhoods around campus and around my current apartment. This is where my friends live, this is where my life is happening. But at the same time, I feel oddly adrift.

I know how to exist without my family, but I’m still learning how to make a home without them.

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