“I’m moving home,” I announce to my parents when I touch down in Philadelphia, fresh off a few days in Las Vegas.
“What?” they both ask, confused.
And, I get it. I really do.
Only few weeks ago I had told them I was meeting with immigration lawyers in Madrid to see how I could get another visa … to see if I could continue living my expat life for another year.
But, then it hit me like a proverbial ton of bricks: the last thing I wanted to do was stay in Madrid. Stay abroad. I was tired. Mentally. Physically. Every -ally you could imagine, that was me.
I had tossed the idea around with them a week earlier, after piercing my nose, and the words just flowed out of my mouth with zero censor: