Home isn't where you hang your hat. It's where you hang your heart. The welcome mat is laid out no matter how long I've been away. No signs at the door to say, "closed" or "no vacancy" because this home, my home is always open. A place where memories are born and not just made.
We can drop our masks and be the human, beautiful mess we are and we are still loved.
Pajamas, unkempt hair, forgiveness, laughter, coffee rings and tear stains adorn the rooms and home feels real and like a warm, cozy bed I can't help but jump into. I cling hard to this comfort and to this familiar.
Home isn't four walls full of perfection, but of imperfect people.
These people, they are my home.