Eight and a Half Days Home
Eight and a half days home. I took half a day off and stretched the National Day week as far as it would go.
By the middle of it I was tired, and I felt bad about admitting that. Nothing exhausting happened — just a lot of being around people. Meals, visits, conversations. All good things, and somehow still draining. Wanting to be home was never about being surrounded every hour, but it took me a few days to stop feeling guilty for needing the quiet parts too.
Most of the time I just hung around with my family — my kid, my parents. Nothing worth reporting. I work far away and get back about once a month, so there's always this pressure in my head to make the days count. But the part I liked best was the boring part: my kid being loud, the house running on its own rhythm, me just being in it instead of visiting it. That's what I miss when I'm away. Not big moments — just normal days I don't get to see.
Eight and a half days won't change anything. But I didn't spend them waiting to go back, and that felt like enough.