When I’m home, I’m not home; but when he’s home, I am home.
You could read that many different ways. Let me unpack it for you, so you get my intended meaning: When I am at the place where I habitually live, I don’t often feel like “Ah, yes, this is home!” It’s been a long time since I felt that anywhere. When my son is with me, in this place where we habitually live, I don’t necessarily feel it, either. I do feel a little saner, a little more whole, a little more like things make sense, like I know what to do and how to spend my time. But, no matter how I feel, I am home… to him. Wherever I am, that’s home to him, and I know that. It’s a kind of magic, you know? A sacred duty.
Or in other words, home is where your heart is, so your real home is in your chest.