They don’t come home because it doesn’t feel like home anymore. That’s on me.

They don’t come home because it doesn’t feel like home anymore. That’s on me. 

My kid used to drop by without even asking. Now weeks pass, and the silence just feels normal. Today they show up quick, just to pick something up. I notice their shoes by the door, lined up neat. The trash bin outside already pulled to the curb. A mug set out for tea, like they thought maybe I’d want to sit for a while. I almost let them leave without saying anything real — just a casual goodbye, pretending I didn’t notice the effort in front of me. That’s the version of the future where visits get shorter, then stop altogether. But I don’t. I catch myself. I look at the mug waiting on the counter, the trash already handled, the way they still made space here. And I say, ‘Hey… thanks for taking the trash out, and for setting up tea. I see it.’ They pause, halfway out the door, then smile just a little and come back into the kitchen. It’s not much, but it’s enough to shift the air. I use an app called ‘quiet effort.’ It keeps me from living the version where home is just another place they left behind.