Second Home

I have been away from home for a few years now, but I still miss it. In my own way. Not in the way they expect me to. My friends and family, I know they love me, but I don’t think they truly understand me. Not one of them supported my move away, not really. A few of my friends tried to act supportive, but they never seemed convincing. You could tell that they had this expectation of me. I don’t even think it was about me. They just expected me to follow the pattern. To keep my head down and file through life in the order I’d been given.

I’m in my thirties now. To everybody back home, moving abroad was a mistake. It is the sole reason why I am single, why my career hasn’t taken off. If you’d asked them, they’d say it was time for me to come home. That I’ve had my holiday, and now it’s time to get serious. The irony is that they would say something similar if I had stayed. They’d say it was time to stop focusing on my hobbies and pursue a ‘real’ career. This doesn’t mean anything in particular, just long-term employment of any kind. I know, I don’t get it either.

The funny thing is, I still miss it. I miss the smell of home, the familiarity of it all. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel at home in another country. Not in the same way. There’s a primal belonging to the land you’re born and raised in that’s hard to explain. It’s time for me to go home. Not to stay, but be, for a while. I need to reconnect to the land. Reset my soul and remind myself of why I left. Not because I hated it, because I don’t. I love it. I left because I outgrew it. I grew out of the expectations. Nobody has that for me here. As a foreigner, the longer I stay, the more local I become. But the more local I become, the more foreign I am to my home. I need to go home because I am no longer sure where I belong. Maybe home will have the answers.

My family and friends didn’t want me to leave, and they are always asking me when I plan to return, so I’m thinking they’ll be pleased to see me. I am looking forward to seeing their faces. I can’t wait to hear what they have all been up to.

I am also craving some home comforts. Dandelion & Burdock: the British answer to root beer, but better. Bacon, proper bacon. None of this thin, crispy shit that costs an arm and a leg to buy here. They don’t really do bacon in Spain, not like we do. It’s more about jamón ibérico or chorizo, which is good, but not the same. I would looove an English Sunday roast dinner and some rhubarb and apple crumble for dessert, with custard! Ooh, I’m drooling now.

It sounds crazy to say, but I miss the supermarkets there. I miss the ease and convenience of things. It’s not like that here. You have to visit several different shops to get all the things you need. Everything feels a little more difficult. I love the café culture here, but sitting on a terrace next to a bustling road or pedestrian street isn’t the same as sitting in a garden away from it all. I miss beer gardens and British banter. I long for parks with green grass. I want to lie in a field beneath a tree and hear nothing but nature. I’m picturing scenic family get-togethers and boozy catch-ups with my friends.

I’m ready for all my favourite foods that I haven’t eaten in so long, I’ve almost forgotten how good they are. Give me everything. Give me all the homelikes and all the feelings. Fill this hole inside of me that’s growing beyond my control. Repair me, fix me. Give me the strength to continue on my journey.

I step out of the airport arrivals to no fanfare. I wasn’t expecting any, of course, but I always look just in case someone I love has decided to surprise me. They haven’t. They never do. It’s not like the movies. I lug my bags to the bus and make my way to the train station. I board the train and send a message, “On my way.”

Okay.

A one-word reply. I try not to read into it. I leave the train and look for my lift, but they’re not here. I wait. Five, ten minutes. I woke up at 6 a.m. Left my house by 7. It’s now 3 p.m. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but I’m over the journey and ready to relax. I’ve been holding the anticipation of ‘home’ for what feels like forever. I hope it lives up to it like it used to.

I see the car and wave, and they wave back. It’s not an enthusiastic wave, but I’ll take it. They stop the car by the side of the road; they don’t get out. They don’t even pop the boot. I roll my suitcases around to the back of the car and open the trunk, and not a word is said. I slide into the back seat, and they both glance back.

“Okay, flight?” my mum asks. My dad checks his mirrors and indicates before pulling back out onto the road.

“Yeah, not bad, thanks,” I reply, unsure of what I am supposed to say about an ordinary flight.

I wait, but that’s it. That’s my welcome.

I ask my mum, “How are things at the restaurant?”

“Busy,” she replies. Great.

“That’s good,” I respond, hoping for something more. I ask if the customers like the new menu.

“Seems so,” she replies. That’s that then. Next subject.

I ask my dad about his job, but he doesn’t hear me. Mum repeats the question, but he isn’t much of a talker when he’s driving. We move on to talking about the weather, and I rationalise that they’ll be more relaxed at dinner. I’m hoping to see my sisters. And my nieces and my nephew. I ask my parents how they are doing, but they don’t know. They haven’t seen them for a while. I’m surprised. I thought they would have spoken about my return. Planned a family get-together.

…I ask. I shouldn’t have asked…

“Everybody’s busy. We’ve got our own stuff going on. We can’t all be on holiday.” My mum replies. I sink into my seat and look back to the sky. Perhaps I should have kept flying.

I thought this time it would be different. It’s been over a year since my last visit. I’d assumed that the longer I was away, the more they’d miss me. The more effort they’d make to see me. Soak up all the time we have together with conversation and laughter, but I guess not.

At dinner, I eat alone. My mum cooks for me, but she’s not hungry, and Dad’s in a grump. He doesn’t talk much these days. I was hoping that might have changed. Obviously not.

I wonder if I’ve changed, because something doesn’t feel right about this. It doesn’t feel like home. I feel like I’m putting out strangers. Maybe tomorrow will be different.

Today, I am visiting my grandparents, and to my relief, they are happy to see me. We talk for a full five minutes before they ask me when I’m coming home for good. Then my gran asks me why I’m not married yet because she doesn’t have long left and wants to see her grandchildren before she dies. Then there’s an awkward silence. I run through the mental checklist of questions and topics, checking which relatives are still alive and who has visited recently, until I’m out of conversation pieces. Then my grandad asks me about my photography, and I feel a surge of warmth in my chest. It’s the first time a member of my family has asked me about my passion in more than a year, and I’m excited but cautious. I don’t want to scare them off with too much information. I test the waters. I tell them about my recent collection of street photography. I start by explaining how I blend the contrast of still images from the sunrise and the sunset to display the ebbs and flows of life in the streets of southern Spain. I’m super proud of it.

My grandad turns to my gran. “Oh, that’s nice, dear,” she says.

I swallow a lump of disappointment, “Um hmm.”

My grandad nods silently, and I prepare myself to tell them the news I’ve been dying to share.

I wanted to tell my parents last night, but they were more interested in the regularly scheduled programming. I’m suddenly nervous to tell my grandparents. I have pictured the look of pride in their eyes so many times. But before I can tell them about the three-month exhibition at a prestigious gallery in Madrid, my grandad interrupts me. He’s excited to tell me about his new grandchild. My youngest cousin has just had a baby. I haven’t met him yet. I do want to hear how they are all doing, but I’m conscious of the unwanted spotlight it will eventually put on me. The only one who doesn’t have a dependent or a significant other.

My gran shows me pictures, but after the third one, I explain that I have already seen them on social media. She shows me some more. I love that they are both happy with their new arrival, but I’m desperate to share and celebrate my own news. My cousin isn’t even in the room with us, and I feel a pang of guilt for wanting to celebrate my own success. Before I can, my gran tuts and tells me I should really settle down and have children of my own. This causes my whole body to sigh, and I do my best to consume it with a controlled inflation of my chest, letting the air out as quietly as possible. It’s not that I’m not happy for her; I am, but since when is having a baby an accomplishment? It’s a huge step in life, one that should be celebrated, but I’m trying to accomplish something. Something that a teenager with a dodgy condom can’t accomplish in one night, or thirty disappointing seconds. If I sound bitter, it’s because I think I am.

Later that evening, I meet my younger sister and her kids. They invited me over when I asked about their plans. She’d forgotten what week I was visiting, even though we texted over the weekend. Despite her perceived lack of enthusiasm, she greets me with a big hug. The kind of hug I’ve been waiting for. She gives the best hugs. I’ve missed them. After the obligatory hour of play with my little nieces, seven and nine, which involves wearing a tiara and playing families with their giant dollhouse, I am finally given some time with my sis. Her husband, Stuart, occupies the little munchkins while we take a seat outside in the garden with a cup of tea. Julia begins by complaining about all the usual things, and I do my best to listen. It’s not that her things aren’t important; it’s just that they are so normal. The school has too many training days for teachers, and she’s annoyed that she can’t take the kids out of school a week early to go on holiday when it’s cheaper. The price of groceries has gone up, Karen at work is still a bitch. It’s like nothing ever changes in her life, but of course it does. The kids are getting older and brighter every day. They have fully fledged personalities now. I want to hear about all of that. All the landmark changes, not the everyday stuff. I want to hear about the days out and the weekends away, but I never get the details.

“I’m so tired,” she says, putting her feet up. “You’re lucky, you can sleep in whenever you want.” I can’t. I still have a life. I’m still building a future, and it takes a lot of work, but I just nod and sip my tea.

Julia finally asks about me, and I sit up, excited to tell her about the exhibition, but before I can, the kids come running. Millie, the youngest one, is in tears, and the moment passes.

Maybe the 4th time will be the charm. I’m meeting my friend at the weekend. I pass the time until then, honing my skills of small talk and indulging in all the local food and treats that I’ve missed. Nobody prepared any for me, so I went to the supermarket and strolled around in the warm familiarity of the aisles, relishing all the choices that don’t exist in Spain. I enjoy the localness of the Mediterranean, but I often miss the convenience and variety of home. Also, nobody does cakes quite like the British, so I struggle not to buy all the desserts I’ve been craving for the last year.

I make it to the weekend without anyone asking me for updates on my life. I’ve been back for three days, and I still haven’t shared my news. It’s weird because being back in the place where I grew up feels like home in so many ways. My grandparents, my sisters, the green fields. It all feels so familiar that it puts me in a stream of easiness that’s hard to replicate, but something feels off. Like I don’t belong here. Everyone I know is living their life like nothing has changed, as if it’s normal that I’m here and there’s nothing to celebrate. Work and routine take up all their focus. It’s surprising. I thought that they’d be eager to break out of their routine and spend some time with me. Do something mildly fun and adventurous. After all, they are constantly nagging me to come home, but for what? I invited my older sister, Sarah, and her son Keiran for lunch by the canal, but Sarah said they already had plans to go shopping. I asked my parents if they wanted to go out for dinner one night, and they said they didn’t have any money. They are currently compiling quotes for new windows. The old ones work fine, but they want new ones.

I’m desperate for my family to see life the way I do. I want them to make the most of it and enjoy themselves more. Maybe I’m asking for too much.

Still, I am eager to meet my friend. He invited me to the pub for beer and burgers to watch the football like we used to. I’m excited for the nostalgia. He started a new job a few months ago, and his second child has recently started walking. We have a lot to catch up on, and we do. The first hour feels like old times. The only difference is that now we’re talking about new babies, politics and even a new vacuum cleaner, or maybe it was a mop? I don’t know, I zoned out. Eventually we find our way to me and my news. Joe asks me how I’m getting on with my photography, and then he stops talking, leans forward, and listens for my response…

I take a fortifying sip of my beer, in case he disappoints me, too.

I tell Joe all about my exhibit, and he smiles and nods, so I go into more detail. I am almost confused by this level of engagement; I am not used to it. Joe seems genuinely interested. He asks to see some of the photos, and I show him. He even wants to know additional details about each piece, and I finally feel myself relaxing. My soul needed this. The excitement and interest of someone who knows me and understands how important this is to me. He’s genuinely supportive, but almost by sheer conformism, he asks me if I have any plans to move home. My eyes roll partially, and I stop myself. I know he’s just curious. He then asks me about my dating life… He doesn’t say it, but slips into how someone we know just got engaged.

He jokes, “You’re the last one left.”

That’s how I feel. Like the last of my kind. The last of the home I once knew. An outsider without a home.

Home is not my home anymore. And yet, somehow it’s still home. Everything is the same, but everything is different because I’m different. My life has grown beyond these borders and now spans across time zones. I don’t belong here like I used to, but I don’t belong there like I used to belong here. I’m somewhere in between my first home and my second home. The hole inside me remains. It grows and shrinks depending on the day, but it’s always there.

When I lived here with my family, it called me away. When I live away, it calls me back.

I just want to belong.

I wish my friends and family would work harder to understand me better. Give change a little try, so we can celebrate life together. Perhaps I’ve changed too much. Maybe I should just conform. Nobody told me that pursuing my dreams meant giving up my home.

“Home is where the heart is.” Well, my heart is torn between places and dreams.

...

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© Simon George 2025. All Rights Reserved.

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