"But don't you miss them?"

"But don't you miss them?" is what a woman who didn't 'allow' her children to move to a different neighborhood asked my mother about her own children. I suppose that when generations of a family have literally never strayed from the nest, it might seem puzzling that a mother could let her children move to a different neighborhood, another city, country or in some (our) extreme cases, another continent (and hemisphere while we're at it).

My mother was an expatriate, living for more than half her lifetime in a country other than her birth one and in the process bringing three children into the world who between them, share 6 passports. So what was she going to do when one by one we all looked beyond the walls of our city and went in search of broader horizons?

Of course she misses us, every single day and unlike other things which time assuages, the longing only gets worse... in both directions, I might add. Some might say that if it was so bad, we could simply move back. Well, it's not that simple and life has a way of asserting its place in a way which forces one to redefine the very concept of "home" itself. "Home" is not always made of bricks and mortar.

For me, Nice is home because when I am there, I feel that I could walk around with my eyes closed but my Australian husband and 5 week old son have, as a matter of course, forever eliminated the possibility of a French exclusivity on where or what "home" is. Australia is their home and therefore, it is mine too. After 9 years here, I can safely say that I have followed my father's advice and adapted but it would be misguided to presume that my happiness here is incompatible with a deep longing for my family there.

Many moons ago, when I left home for the first time at the age of 17, I was asked if I missed my family.  Bold and brave as only the young can be, I replied that I thought of them often but did not miss them as such. I was busy living my life and making myself at home but rather than suggesting that this independence came from a shortage of love, I believe and I know that the opposite is far more accurate. It is precisely because of the abundance of love, affection and trust that my parents placed in me that I was able to fly with my own wings from a young age. As I heard once, "there is a time to hold your children close and a time to let them go."

As I watch Hugo as he lies sound asleep dreaming of what can only possibly be milk, I can not imagine ever letting him go. For the moment, it is the time to hold him close and tight but when the time comes for him to fly, I will not clip his wings but my, oh my, will I miss him.