Last year, around this time, Udi packed his bags and flew off to chase his dreams. The house shifted a little ‘quieter’, yes! Yet we didn’t feel the weight, as Adi was still home. His laughter filled the corners; his footsteps kept the rhythm of our days.

But this year, when Adi left too, the silence didn’t just settle, ‘it screamed’. The weight was felt, seen and heard.

The walls echo with memories. The cushions still carry the shape of their lounging. The fridge is too full, the laundry too empty, rooms are crying for company, no one to bang that door, pranks are lost, no one to call Maa. And my heart… it waits.

We raise them to fly. We pour our lives into building a launch pad of values, resilience, and emotional grounding. We tell ourselves this is the goal. And it is. But no one tells you how it feels when they actually take off.

Now, sitting alone at home, my heart aches to hear the word Maa. My ears strain for their chirping, their chat-chat, their silly fights and sudden hugs. My eyes are wet, waiting for the door to open, for them to walk in and wrap me in a hug that says, “I am home Maa.”

Home is still home. But it’s changed. Because home, I have come to realise, is not just a place, ‘it’s a feeling’. And that feeling, they have taken with them in their hearts.

And here’s the most beautiful part: they miss it too.

It’s rare for 18- or 19-year-olds to long for home, to crave the comfort of parents, to want to come back not just for food or laundry, but to share life. And yet, they do. That’s the home we have built. One they carry with them; one they want to return to.

As parents, we are proud. Proud that we have given them not just a roof, but roots. Not just a house, but a haven. A place they long for, even as they soar.

So yes, the home feels empty. But our hearts? They are full. Full of memories, full of love, and full of the quiet joy that comes from knowing we have done something right.