We drove past the house.
The For Sale sign was gone.
There were toys in the yard.
A little boy was riding a bicycle along the driveway.
The new owners had planted flowers near the front steps.
Clare looked through the window.
“That feels strange.”
“It does.”
“Do you miss it?”
I considered the question.
I had spent my childhood there.
My parents had raised me there.
I had saved it from foreclosure.
I had thought of it as home for most of my life.
But no.
I didn’t miss it.
Because I finally understood something.
A home isn’t defined by its walls.
It isn’t defined by who has lived there the longest.
And it certainly isn’t defined by who believes they deserve the best chair.
A home is the place where the people inside it make you feel safe.
Clare squeezed my hand.
From the back seat came the soft sound of our daughter waking.
