When I was five or so, my dad and I had a Sunday ritual: I'd sit on a little step ladder in the kitchen and watch him make breakfast for us. Scrambled eggs, a piece of ham, and two pieces of cinnamon toast. He still makes the same breakfast for me when I go back for visits.
Now we have a new Sunday ritual: I call him on FaceTime while he's making breakfast and I'm making dinner. We talk about his work, my work, the news, our new house ... I show him things like our new carpet or the mosaic lamp we bought in Singapore. Once in a while, he'll interrupt with, "What are you making? Is it any good? That chicken is going to be too dry like that. I guarantee it."
This time, our conversation turned to my grandma's Happy Valley apartment, which was sold to the highest bidder last week after she passed away this summer. Apparently, the sale made Hong Kong papers. I clicked through photos of the emptied flat on my cousin's Facebook page, feeling a hollow sadness as I remembered the sound of the door opening and my grandma's face lighting up on the other side as she greeted us with our suitcases in tow.
"You know, I'm rootless now. I have no connection to Hong Kong anymore," my dad declared between bites of toast."I have no home!"
"But wait," I said. "Don't you feel like our home in Washington is your home?"
His answer surprised me. Without pausing, he answered: "No. I've never felt like this was my home. I mean, it's where you kids grew up, but those are all the memories I have of this house. The Happy Valley apartment was my home, when Mar Mar was around."
This made me equally sad and curious at the same time. I'd never heard my dad define "home" like that. I decided to investigate further.
"But don't you feel like where you started your own family was your home?" I asked.
"No," he said with his mouth full. "I always felt like, you know, if anything happened - and I mean, anything - if it all went wrong, I could go back to Mar Mar's place and everything would be fine." And he dissolved into fits of laughter, as if it was the silliest thought in the world.
But it wasn't. Because I've often thought the very same thing. And I wish it were different. I wish I could say with certainty that this new house that John and I have bought together is my "home".
Maybe one day it will be.
But after having this conversation with my dad last night, I'm beginning to think it might never really feel like that - and that scares me. I'm beginning to think that my home will always be that house in the Puget Sound that overlooks the treetops with a view of Mount Rainier; that house with the strange, hilly hairpin driveway that I can (probably still) manoeuvre out of with one hand on the steering wheel; that house with a small bedroom that still has my high school awards mounted on the wall and probably always will.
That house I know.
Maybe one day it will be.
But after having this conversation with my dad last night, I'm beginning to think it might never really feel like that - and that scares me. I'm beginning to think that my home will always be that house in the Puget Sound that overlooks the treetops with a view of Mount Rainier; that house with the strange, hilly hairpin driveway that I can (probably still) manoeuvre out of with one hand on the steering wheel; that house with a small bedroom that still has my high school awards mounted on the wall and probably always will.
That house I know.
It scares me because I knew exactly what my dad meant about "if it all went wrong". Because secretly? I've always felt like that about my childhood home. I've tried to wean myself off of calling it my "home" ('I'm going back to my parents' house for Christmas' vs. 'I'm going home for Christmas') for a while, but it feels wrong. The words feel strange in my mouth, or even when I form them in my head.
It scares me because it makes me feel guilty; like I'm betraying John or my decision to live here in London by calling somewhere else my "home". It also scares me because I dread the day that I say to someone, between bites of toast, "I'm totally rootless!"
But maybe "home" is actually a feeling. Or a belief. For me, my "home" is the last place I remember feeling completely and utterly safe; protected. Like a force-field had been drawn around it, deflecting anything or anyone bad who tried to enter that bubble. And that, to me, will always remain my family home. It's something I've struggled to admit in the last few years, but hearing my dad say it was a relief.
Of course, he shrugged off this rare glimpse of sentimentality by taking another bite of toast and asking, "So. When will your dinner be ready? And are you going to have wine or what?"
Of course, he shrugged off this rare glimpse of sentimentality by taking another bite of toast and asking, "So. When will your dinner be ready? And are you going to have wine or what?"
