It was hard. It was so incredibly hard to fly back, to see the town I spent my first 25 years in. To go out to dinner with my family and know that I have no idea when it’ll happen again. I spent some time with my cousin, the closest thing I have to a sister, and I don’t know when I’ll see her again. And I stayed at my mom’s house.
I saw my cat that I had to leave behind, because he doesn’t travel well (understatement). I saw our house, our first house, the one my mom bought after we spent so long in the apartment, the house she still lives in. And it didn’t feel like home, but it did, because she was there.
Moving away from my mom was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And maybe that makes me co-dependent; maybe it makes me weak or childish. I don’t know what it makes me, but it hurts, and it hurts all the time. I don’t know if it will ever stop hurting, if I’ll ever stop praying that we can live in the same town together. I don’t know if that secret, selfish wish will ever change, or if I’ll ever be less devastated when I have to leave, or when she does.
All I know is that I’m back and all I want to do is cry.