“Mama, when are we going home?” my son whispers, his eyes glued to the car window.

I grip the steering wheel and glance behind me. His flip-flops and beach towel are strewn across the back seat. His goggles, around his neck. Pinkish popsicle stains skip across his white camp t-shirt. All signs of a good summer, or so I would have thought.

I wish I knew how to answer him. I’m not sure I want to go home.

“You miss being home?” I ask.

“Yes.”