Come home, child.

　　"Dear Dad," I wrote, "I want to go home." I sat on the side of the congested highway for a long time thinking about it, then tore the letter up and crumpled it into a ball. I had written the beginning of this letter many times, but never really finished it. I wanted to go home, to my parents and sisters' home, but ......

　　I had run away from home since I graduated from high school. My parents insisted I had to go to college, but I was so fed up with school, I hated it, and I decided I would never go to class again. Besides, my father was too hard on me. I had too many farm chores to do. I hated all that work.

　　I had big fights with my father. When my father yelled behind my back, "If you leave, don't come back!" I threw some things into a bag and left in anger. My mother let out a loud cry. I still see her tears on the hundreds of sleepless nights that followed.

　　It's time to write a letter.

　　Dear Dad.

　　It's been over a year since I traveled from the East to the West. I've had countless jobs, none of which earned me any money. Always the same question: What is your education level? It seems everyone always wants to give good jobs to people with college degrees.

　　Dad, you and Mom were right about so many things. I now know that the work in the fields did me no harm. I also believe I need to go to college. I believe even more that you both love me. It is so hard for me to write this letter, I would not have written it a year ago. Since leaving, I have met some good people and some brutal and harsh people. I thought I could handle it all, but sometimes that is hard, especially when there is no loving and safe home to return to at night. I never really realized what home meant until I was away from it for several months.

　　Dad, I've learned my lesson. I want to go home. I know you said not to come back if I left, but I prayed you would change your mind. I know I made you very angry that day and that I hurt you. I won't blame you if you reject me, but I still have to say hello. I know I should have written this letter a long time ago, but I was afraid you wouldn't want to know my message.

　　I want to go home and be a part of my family again. I want to go to college and learn how to become a successful farmer. Then, if you let me, maybe I can farm with you.

　　I'm on my way home right now, so you won't be able to write back. But in a few days, I don't know how many days, because I'm hitchhiking home and I'll be passing by the farm. Dad, if you will let me come home, please leave the porch light on. I'll stop around at night. If the light isn't on, I'll move on. If the porch is dark, I won't have a hard time, I can sympathize.

　　Please convey my love to Mom and my sisters.

　　Love, your son

　　When I folded the letter and put it in the envelope, I felt relieved, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders in an instant. I put the letter in my shirt pocket, dragged my worn-out luggage to the curb, and gave a big thumbs-up to the first car I passed. There was still a long way to go before I could get an answer.

　　From the time I left at noon until the evening, I had only advanced 50 or 60 miles. I mailed the letter to a small inconspicuous post office. I had some nervousness as I put the letter in the outlying mail slot. Maybe I shouldn't have mailed the letter, but it was done and I had to get on the road home.

　　The next day, hitchhiking opportunities became few and far between. I hadn't slept the night before, so now I felt tired and sleepy. I crossed the road to the other side of the farm and tried to sleep by lying in the grass next to an oak tree. But it was hard to sleep because of the pleasant muffled sound of a tractor in a nearby field and two dogs chasing a rabbit a few yards from me. I could hear small children playing in the farmhouse on the hill, and the sound of roosters crowing loudly and hens cooing. I imagined I was smelling the sweet aroma of fresh apple pie. Then I close my eyes and I can almost see my home, the home I left without hesitation in a moment of rage. I wondered what my sisters were doing now. They are so annoying, but I never make mistakes in their eyes. And, what would my mother cook? When we sit down to eat, she always says, "Son, this is something I made especially for you."

　　I can't think about it anymore, I have to go. With the invigorating scent of freshly cut straw in my nose, I started on the long road home. But was it still my home? My father was fair, but he was also stubborn.

　　A car stopped to give me a ride, and it was nice to have someone to talk to. The driver was a businessman and very nice.

　　"Where are you going, son?" He asked.

　　I was silent for a long time before I spoke up and answered, "Home."

　　"Where have you been?" He asked.

　　I knew he wasn't into prying, and the look on his face told me that he was genuinely interested. "I've been everywhere," I said.

　　"Been away from home long?"

　　I smiled and answered with a little smugness, "A year, a month, and two days."

　　He didn't look at me, but he smiled. I knew he understood. He told me about his family, that he had two sons, one as old as me and one older than me. When darkness came, he found a place to eat and insisted that I join him. I was all dirty, so I told him I would embarrass him, but he wouldn't let me refuse. He planned to stay there for the night, and after we ate, he convinced me to stay there with him that night. He said I could clean up and rest there before I left. He reminded me of my father. I told him I didn't have any money, that he had already paid for my dinner, and that I couldn't ask him to spend any more money on me.

　　But I stayed anyway. The next morning after breakfast, I tried to thank him, but he said, "You're a good boy. You know what? My oldest son has been running away from home for two years - two years and 15 days." He looked away, then said, "I wish someone would treat my kids right, too."

　　I didn't know what to say. He shook my hand and smiled warmly at me.

　　"Thank you for everything you've done for me, sir." I stammered.

　　"You're welcome," he said, "and good luck."

　　Two days later, I was only 50 miles from home. I had been walking for hours, and as night fell slowly, I still walked, not expecting anyone to stop. There was an inner drive that drove me forward, in the direction of home. But the faster I walked, the more apprehensive I became. What am I going to do if the porch is dark? Where do I go?

　　A large truck slowed to a stop, and I ran forward and got in.

　　"Where are you going?" The dark, burly driver asked.

　　"It's about 40 to 50 miles from here, can you drive that far?" I asked him.

　　"Farther." He muttered to himself.

　　We rarely talked to each other, and he didn't talk to me much. I pretended to fall asleep and leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

　　Thirty minutes later it started to rain, very moderately at first, then falling in large sheets. I slept and woke up.

　　Then, as the rain poured down, we were very close to my father's farmland. I was quite awake. Would there be a light on the porch? I looked out in the darkness and the rain with wide eyes. Suddenly, we were there, and I couldn't look. I couldn't bear to look and not see the lights on, and I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart pounding.

　　At that moment, the driver suddenly said rudely, "Look at that house, the one we just passed must have someone crazy in it, there were three to four chairs on the porch, each with a lighted lamp on it. An old man was there with a flashlight shining into the road, and the porch light was on."

　　 The story ended, but my heart could not calm down for a long time. I was touched by that deep fatherly love, and once had rebelled and thought of running away from home, but in the end, I realized that: in fact, home is always the final way back.

　　 Son, go home!