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Can you ever go home again? This question has been asked time and again. Many authors have written essays, poems and books on the subject. My thoughts on it are nothing earth-shattering.

For many of us there is a bizarre moment in our lives when we stop calling the place where our family lives “home.” For me this time came when I had my own apartment after college. While I considered my apartment my home, I would still say, “I’m going home to visit my parents.” It was not until my parents moved to Scotland permanently and gave up their house in Virginia that I stopped calling the place they lived “home.”

My husband has lived in our house for more than 6 years. Before he lived here, his grandparents lived here. His parents live just down the road, his sister is just down the road too, his younger brother and his brother’s wife rent out the bottom floor of our house and his other brother lives two miles away. He was born and raised in Maryland and has never lived elsewhere. But even my husband, surrounded by his family, in a house he’s had for years, feels that the home of his youth is gone.

In my case, my parents live in a small village on the Isle of Skye in Scotland and my sister, her husband and my two nephews live in west Texas. I was born in Virginia and raised in Pakistan, Scotland, Texas and Virginia (in no particular order).  Until I got married last November, I had lived in Virginia on and off for 11 years.

I feel at home where my family is. I feel comfort when I am around my parents and miss them so dreadfully most of the time. I often talk about being homesick. But the truth is I’ve found my new home. Home is where your bed is. Home is the place that you long to retreat to and the place you want to go back to after you’ve been away awhile. Home is where my husband is.

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