by a guy who has learned that distance measures miles, not meaning
Here I am in Houston, Texas—two thousand miles from a little house in Virginia—and the night feels just unfamiliar enough to make a man think.
It’s quiet in a different way here. Not the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket, but the kind that sits beside you, waiting. The hum of the air conditioner, the distant rush of cars that never quite stop, the soft glow of a room that hasn’t yet learned your habits. And somewhere in all that… a thought slips in.
I miss home.
Not just one. All of them.
The first one comes gently, like it knows it doesn’t have to try too hard. A small house under a canopy of trees that seemed endless when you were a child. The kind of place where mornings had a rhythm. My mother moving about, making sure we were dressed right, as if the world outside required a certain readiness. My father at the table, eating quietly before heading out, already carrying the weight of the day. And my grandmother… always there, in the kitchen, doing something that didn’t need explaining. The smell alone was enough. You didn’t question it. You just knew you were home.
Back then, time didn’t rush. It wandered. Afternoons stretched. Evenings settled slowly. And happiness… it wasn’t something you chased. It just showed up, unannounced, and stayed awhile.
There was England too.
A different kind of home. Colder, yes. Wetter, definitely. The kind of place where you learn to carry on despite the weather, or maybe because of it. Rain tapping against windows like it had something to say. Snow that didn’t wait for an invitation, just arrived and changed everything for a while.
But it wasn’t the weather that made it a home.
It was the people.
And the noise—good noise. The kind that doesn’t knock before it fills a space. Little kids running through the house like dreams, feet thudding against old floors, laughter spilling into every room. Doors opening and closing. Someone always calling out for someone else. A kettle somewhere in the background, working as hard as the radiators that fought the winter cold.
And those radiators… clanking and hissing like they had their own personality, pushing warmth into rooms that needed it. But even they couldn’t quite match what was already there. Because inside those walls, love burned hotter than anything metal ever could.
Coworkers who stopped being just that. Conversations that started over work and drifted into something deeper, something that lingered long after the day was done. Evenings where you stayed longer than you planned, not because you had to—but because leaving felt like cutting something short.
Laughter that settled into the furniture. Stories that lived in the corners of rooms. A house that didn’t just stand—it held everything together. Messy, loud, alive… and full in a way that made you forget about the grey skies outside.
That was home too.
And then Virginia.
Ah… Virginia.
That quiet. That deep, settled quiet. The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself. Close enough to the mountains to feel grounded, near enough to the sea to feel open. A place where history sits patiently in the background, not demanding attention, just existing.
That’s where I found a different rhythm.
Walks with my dog, Georgie, who never once questioned where we were going, only that we were going together. The same paths, the same turns, the same park where time seemed to slow down just enough to let you breathe. Evenings where nothing much happened—and somehow, that was everything. The television humming softly, the world outside dimming, and a kind of peace that didn’t need explaining.
That was home too.
And now… Houston.
At first, it felt like a stopover. A place you pass through while thinking about somewhere else. The streets unfamiliar, the air heavier, the pace just slightly off from what you’re used to. You walk around and everything works, everything moves, but it hasn’t yet found its place in you.
But something’s been happening.
Quietly. Slowly.
The kind of change you don’t notice until you do.
I find myself listening for the door in the evenings. Waiting for her to come home. Thinking about the stories she’ll bring with her—the little things, the strange things, the moments that made her laugh during the day. And when she walks in, and the room shifts just a little… it feels different.
Warmer.
Lived in.
And in that moment, something settles.
It makes me realize that what I’ve been missing all this time wasn’t just the houses, or the places, or even the memories tied to them.
It was the feeling.
That quiet certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t have the words for it.
I miss my childhood. I miss England. I miss Virginia.
I miss the versions of myself that lived in those places, the people who filled them, the moments that made them what they were.
But sitting here now, in a place that didn’t mean much not too long ago, I’m beginning to understand something I probably should’ve known all along.
Home isn’t where you started.
It’s not even where you stayed the longest.
It’s where your heart learns to rest.
And maybe… just maybe… that’s what’s happening here.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
But surely.
Because as much as I miss those homes… I think what I’ve really been missing is this feeling.
And tonight, in this quiet room in Houston, waiting for the sound of the door, I realize—
Home isn’t behind me.
It’s right here.
Waiting.
Quick reminder.
Hidden Alignment is available now in paperback or Kindle for those interested.
So if you fancy doing something slightly more productive than arguing with strangers on the internet, the link is below… along with the QR code
A Kings 
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