What no one tells you is that one day you’re going to be sitting alone in your old bedroom at your parents’ house and something is going to hit you in a way you’re not fully prepared to handle.
Nothing is going to look familiar and although you haven’t lived there in years, you’re somehow shocked and offended by just how drastic all the changes are. The walls are the same color and the carpet is the same, but it’s not yours any longer. It doesn’t look like home.
It’s as if they couldn’t wait for you to leave to finally have it look the way they’ve always wanted it to. You dwell heavily on the fact that you have two other siblings with rooms that were left seemingly untouched, and you can’t figure out how much of those feelings are the dramatic middle child syndrome oozing through and which are legitimate. You start crying either way.
Your mother will walk in and catch you sobbing in your room just as she did countless times when you were a child. You’ll immediately stop crying and play everything off because you’re the sarcastic, entirely divorced from emotions child, so you’ll make smug comments about the room instead of just asking her why it seems it was so easy for them to erase you.
She’ll see right through your bullshit because she’s your mother and she’s the person who knows you more than you know yourself. She’ll sit down, look you dead in the face and tell you that out of all of her children she knew you’d never be the one who would want to come back home because you were the one who never really fit in in the first place, how although all of your stuff is gone you somehow still seem to occupy the most space in the house despite your absence.
And it is then you’ll learn that as you get older home is not so much a place any more as it is a feeling.