"Is everything okay?" Tim asks as we drive through the night's heavy rain.

"I'm fine," I say, staring out my window. "Just tired from the plane ride." The November downpour outside is a harsh contrast to the warm beaches we enjoyed all week on our honeymoon.

"If you want," he begins slowly, "we can probably stay with your mom and dad."

"No, that's okay!" I say quickly, half smiling. I turn to look at our backseat, piled with the wedding gifts we had picked up from my parents' house. The drive to our new apartment to spend the night for the first time is lonely.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Tim asks again.

I look at him carefully and I can picture him in his black tux at our wedding. I see us running hand-in-hand to our car while a row of guests on each side tosses tiny leaves into the air. I pass my parents without looking back.

"I just feel different," I say aloud.

Suddenly, I see my young self. I'm graduating from high school and picking a university 1,500 miles from home, not telling my parents until after making my first tuition payment. A year later, I don't have a dime for my tuition, but somehow manage without a single terrified call home. My junior year, I tell my parents about my boyfriend, Tim - whom I'd already been dating a year and a half.

Reflecting back, it's all clear now.

I wanted to do everything on my own and assumed my parents would accept and support the changes. But my independent spirit told me they would always be waiting when I decided to come back.

"You know," I tell Tim, my throat tightening, "up until a week ago I've always lived with my parents. I could leave home to do what I had to do, and then come back whenever I wanted." The reality of what I'm saying chokes me. "But now I can't go back to live in my house - I have to grow up!"

With surprise, I feel tears spilling down my face. In between sobs, I hear Tim dialing his cell phone.

"Hello, it's Tim. Can I speak to Mrs. Gomez?" A pause. "Hi, Mrs. Gomez. No, we're fine, but I think someone needs to talk to you." He puts the phone by my ear, and before I can think, I whimper, "It's just different, that's all."

Mom already knows.

"Don't cry!" she says, her timid voice unusually strong. "Don't you know I already prayed to God to give me the strength to let you go?" I wipe my eyes as her soothing voice explains, "That's just life, but it's all going to be all right."

She talks to me for a long time, and when I finally say good-bye to her, I'm no longer crying, just sleepy.

Thinking back at that first night in our new apartment, I smile. As I slept next to Tim, surrounded by boxes and empty rooms, I could not possibly know how easily and without notice I would begin to call our new place "home."

I sleep peacefully now, knowing I can leave and come back and everything will be all right, because I am always home.

By Liza Maakestad