Eternal Ephemerals

Back home

The first week back home was supposed to be filled with joy, a celebration of the years he'd spent away at university and his impending adventure abroad. He had imagined a warm, lazy summer at home, savoring every moment before embarking on his new journey. He'd imagined laughter-filled evenings with his family, rewatching old movies, reminiscing about childhood antics, and long conversations over tea. But instead, it had been... frustrating.

The house felt the same—walls painted the same pastel colors, familiar curtains swaying gently with the breeze, the ticking of the old grandfather clock echoing in the hallway. But the people living inside seemed different. It was as if the four years he'd been gone had shifted everything, just slightly enough that it was out of tune, no longer in sync.

He hadn't expected his parents to change. But then again, he hadn't thought much about how he'd changed either. He was an adult now, accustomed to his independence, accustomed to taking care of himself, making his own choices, waking up when he wanted, eating what he liked. He had his own rhythm—a rhythm that had nothing to do with the structured routine of his family home.

He tried to read in the afternoons, to catch up on some of the books he had been meaning to finish. He'd get two or three pages in before his mother would call from the kitchen, asking him to help with something, or his father would ask him to run an errand. Every time, he'd close the book with a sigh, frustration mounting.

"Why don't you spend some time with us?" his mother asked one evening as he sat in his room, staring blankly at his laptop screen. "You've been gone for so long, and now you're going away again."

The words stung. He had wanted to spend time with them. That's why he was here, wasn't it? But every interaction seemed to end in misunderstanding. They still saw him as the same boy who had left home four years ago—their young, obedient son who'd fall in line with their way of life without question. And maybe he had expected the same—a house where he could slip back into his old role, to be taken care of, to let someone else make the decisions for a while.

But that wasn't who he was anymore.

The tension simmered beneath the surface, small arguments bubbling up over trivial things—how he slept too late, or how he didn't help enough around the house, or how he spent too much time on his phone. He found himself retreating more and more into his room, seeking solace in the quiet, in the books he tried and failed to read.

One afternoon, after yet another argument over something inconsequential, he found himself sitting in the garden, staring at the flowers his mother had so carefully tended. The roses were in full bloom, their fragrance filling the air, and for a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. He was leaving in three months—just three short months. Was this how he wanted to spend them? Arguing over who did the dishes or feeling resentful because he couldn't have the peace and quiet he was used to?

He thought of his parents, of the lives they had led while he was away. They had their own rhythm now, just as he had his. They had grown older, adapted to a life without him in the house, and now he had returned, expecting everything to fall back into place as if nothing had changed. It wasn't fair to them. And it wasn't fair to himself either.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to adjust. To let go of the expectations he had held, to meet his parents halfway.

The next morning, he woke up early—earlier than he had since he'd returned. He found his mother in the kitchen, already preparing breakfast. She looked surprised to see him, but a smile spread across her face.

"Do you need help?" he asked, and her eyes softened.

"Yes," she said, handing him a knife to chop the vegetables. They worked together in silence for a while, and it wasn't awkward. It was... comforting.

He spent the rest of the day with his parents, helping with the chores, running errands with his father, sitting with them in the evening as they watched TV. It wasn't what he had planned for his time at home, but it felt right. It felt like the kind of goodbye he wanted to have.

He realized that, for now, it was okay to mold himself into their schedule. It was okay to put aside his independence for a little while, to be a part of their world again, to help make things easier for them. They were his parents, after all. And he loved them.

He still found time to read, late at night when the house was quiet, or early in the morning before anyone else woke up. He still had moments to himself, moments where he could be the person he had become. But he also had moments with his family—moments of laughter, of shared meals, of quiet contentment.

Three months wasn't a long time. And for three months, it was okay to let go of his expectations, to be present, to be a son again.

When the time came for him to leave, he knew he would take those moments with him, carry them in his heart as he started his new journey. And he knew that, no matter how much they all changed, no matter how far he went, this would always be home.