The house I lived in for fifteen years is not my home.
My home is not where I live, or where I cook. My home is my mother. Wherever she is, that’s home to me.
Many may consider it a cliché, but to me it’s completely different. Around two years ago I lost close to all my family I grew up with. It was just another day when my grandma, godfather, and his wife decided to gang up on my mom because my grandma made up a lie, saying that my mom and grandpa were always against her and always bad-mouthing the family. My godfather ended up threatening my mom, and his wife told us to leave the house. We were kicked out of the house we lived in and in just a week had to find a new place to live. When we did, we had no one to rely on, no one to help us out.
At that point in time I thought my whole world was falling apart. That’s when I crawled into bed next to my mom and lay my head on her stomach. She said, “What’s wrong, my munchichi?”
I shook my head side to side.
Then she put her arm around me and squeezed, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault we have no one.”
I could hear her breathing getting tighter. I hugged her with one arm and said, “But there’s no reason to be sorry. We have each other and that’s all I need.”
She said, “I love you.”
I stayed there for a while longer. I could feel her stomach moving with every breath she took.
At that moment nothing could go wrong. I had everything I ever needed right there, laying my head on her stomach. And that’s when it hit me. I’ve never felt so at home anywhere else—not even in the place I lived for most of my life.
Being with my mom is where I felt safe, where I feel comfortable, like I could breathe again for the first time. It didn’t matter if I had no eyeliner on or if my family disowned me. Whenever I was with her I could be myself without being afraid.
When I thought I’d lost it all is when I discovered my home all over again.

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