A House can be A Home but A Home is Almost Never A House

by Brianna Caridi | 2018

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     When I saw my mother again, she asked me to move back home. She told me leaving was ridiculous. She said that if I didn’t decide right there and then that I was moving back in with her, I was no longer welcome in her home. I considered her ultimatum. Never in my life had I felt so confident and at ease about such a significant decision. That day, I walked out of her house. Out loud, I said nothing. In my head, thousands of things I wanted to say to her tempted my tongue. I did not let them torture me. That day was the day I chose to silence the ever-present entity that quietly judged my every choice. That day marked my rebirth, possibly the only birth in history that didn’t involve a mother.

     A few weeks later, I was surprised to find my mother standing outside the door to our apartment. She was surprised to find him standing behind me. Historically, my mother was not one to show emotion. She would never let others know she had a weakness, because that is what she believed emotion was, a weakness. However, on this particular day, her emotion was clear: betrayal. She would never admit this directly. When I was fifteen, I went through my first breakup. It destroyed me in a way I never thought possible. I spent that entire day holed up in my room succumbing to hysteric fits of crying and shaking. My mother did not check on me once, though I knew my state was quite audible all over the house. The only time I saw her that day was when she came into my room to tell me that dinner was on the table. She said nothing else.

     As she stood outside our apartment in utter disbelief, I realized I was waiting for her to speak as I have done my entire life. I was waiting for a lecture or a subtle dig in a way only my mother knows how to do. However, before I completely understood what I was doing, I began talking. I gestured to Chris, my boyfriend, behind me.

     “I know you probably came here to lecture me about this shabby apartment I’m living in, but now you’re probably reconsidering the kind of lecture you need to give. So before you try to tell me that we are unfit to live together, let me tell you about him. His name is Chris. He just graduated college and got hired as a police officer. He has graciously agreed to pay two-thirds of the rent while I only pay one-third as I’m trying to finish school myself. He can cook anything under the sun and swears he can play guitar, though I have yet to witness that. He sings when he’s had too much to drink and his voice is low and groggy when he wakes up in the morning. His lips are always bright pink but don’t ask him if they’re chapped because they’re not, they’re just pink. Much to my disapproval, he only owns black t-shirts and jeans, nothing else. For some reason, he thinks of himself as not being a good person but he is the best person I know. He hates coffee and tea so I will never understand how he wakes up in the morning. He wakes up before me, and even though he hates coffee, he always makes a cup for me so I can have it when I wake up. He only showers at night. He loves scary movies. He hates birds, he’s not afraid of them, he just hates them. Sometimes when he smiles I feel like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. But most importantly, he has made me realize that home can be anywhere. It can be a shabby apartment, or a mansion worth a million dollars because my home is not a place, it’s him. And I have never felt more at home than I do when we’re together. So yes mother, this is my home and I am proud to say that it’s not this small apartment, but the person living here with me.”

     My mother gave me a hard look. “What will you do when he disappoints you?”

     “Sometimes homes have cracks, and that’s okay.”

     “And what if your house burns down?” she asks.

     “Then I’ll still have a home.”