Yes, I was given a home.
I was given a home when my parents went across The River.
I was given a home when all my father's books and mother's silverware were laid before me.
When the title Baggins of Bag End passed to me, I was given a home.
This place doesn't feel like home anymore, though.
There's no more laughter, no more stories, and no more bustling in the kitchen as mother tries out new recipes.
There's nothing left for me to do but clean these once loved walls, send longing glances at the portraits above the mantle, and keep up appearances.
I was given a home, but it's too lonely to be a home anymore.
Now I have no home.
I walk or ride among thirteen companions, thirteen dwarves.
I carry a sword that glows when poisonous villains are near and that they, those proud, stubborn, rock-like beings, call a letter opener.
We face nightmares and amazement and happenings that not even my father's books could have described.
By firelight, under the stars or the overhang of a cave, we watch over each other.
We cook for each other and sleep side by side; we share stories that are both truthful and embellished.
Together we achieve our goal.
On this road, with these unlikely companions, I am not a Baggins of Bag End.
I am not lonely.
Here, I am home.