She is 3 years old, and home is a small white house with blue shutters and a swing-set in the backyard. It's Daddy, tall and broad-shouldered, who loves to play games with her. Who picks her up and throws her wildly in the air. As high as she goes — up, up, up, screaming with laughter — she never doubts for a moment that he'll catch her.
It's Mommy, who has long, brown hair and smells like flowers. Who sings with her in the car and calls her "baby girl" and tickles her until they both collapse into giggles.
But then they stop laughing and Mommy cries; Daddy cries a little, too, and tells her that she has to go away and have a new Mommy and Daddy. He tells her that he loves her, and she has to be a big girl and try hard.
So she does.
She is 8 years old, and home is St. Joseph's Home for Children. At least for the moment.
It's a dormitory filled with rows of beds for children just like her — unloved, unlovable, unwanted, unimportant.
It's crying herself to sleep at night and beating up mean boys during the day if they dare to say anything about her tears. It's scrambling to stop the older kids from taking her food and her few personal possessions, including a baby blanket her real mother made for her long ago. Sometimes she sleeps with it still, falling asleep while tracing the letters of her name and trying to imagine that someone once wanted her.
It's a break between a seemingly-endless stream of foster homes. She'd decided long ago that the bad ones were the best, because she wasn't even tempted to pretend she belonged, wasn't about to get too comfortable, just to have the rug pulled out from under her. Again.
Because girls like her didn't get real homes.
She's 17 years old, and home is a bright yellow VW bug and a charming thief with warm brown eyes and an engaging smile. It's the thrill of stealing from convenience stores and empty hotel rooms, the excitement of distracting a restaurant employee so Neal can swipe food, the rush of running from the cops.
It's days of sneaking into movies, learning the ins and outs of break-ins and lifting wallets, and hunting down the best cheap food to be had in Portland. It's nights of star-gazing, of snuggling in the car and sharing secrets.
It's love, for the first time. It's the promise of a new name, a new city, a new start.
Until it's not.
She is 30 years old, and though she does have a permanent residence, home is more than four walls and a roof, more than a warm bed and cozy kitchen.
It's a 12-year-old son, now edging her out in height but still childish enough to tackle-hug her at every opportunity. It's hours spent archery training and talking with Mary Margaret and long walks full of stories with David. It's a new brother who wraps her around his little finger the first time she holds him, instantly erasing the traces of jealousy she'd tried so hard hide, and to quench.
It's Killian — her best friend, her confidant, her lover, her True Love, her hero in pirate's clothing. The man who fills her days with joy and laughter and her nights with passion and pleasure. Who has her back in a fight and has more faith in her than anyone but Henry, who always tells her the truth, no matter how painful or difficult it might be. Who whispers her name like a prayer and gives her shivers with his whispers of "my love" in her ear and fuels her recent daydreams about Happily Ever After and babies with wild dark hair and mischievous blue eyes. He's the love she never saw coming, but she can't imagine life without him.
Home is her people, her family, her loves.
It's where she keeps her heart.
end