Where You Feel Loved

Previous Chapter: Breaking Free: How I Escaped a Toxic Home to Live in a Van 

Next Chapter: Where Loneliness Fades

The first night in the van was a night I will never forget. I was freezing, shivering under my blankets and the five pairs of socks I put on. The cold seemed to have consumed the van. Tears streaming down my face. I remember thinking "I'm stronger than this." but it was no good. The silence was terrifying—no distant sounds from the television, no arguments with my mother with whomever she had over that night. I felt an emptiness that felt over whelming and vast.

I was being smothered in loneliness, which was strange. I felt alone since Jake left, but this was different. It was deeper than anything I'd felt before. I hugged myself tight, something I've done dozens of times before to feel loved, but it didn't help this time. I was consumed in doubt. Had I made a terrible mistake? The freedom I'd chased now felt like a void, and the open road ahead seemed endless and uncertain. The shadows in the van stretched long and shapeless, mirroring the fear that settled in my chest.

Just then, Max stirred from his spot near the front seat. He padded over quietly and nudged his nose against my hand. He knew me too well. He knew what I was feeling. It was almost like he felt the same things I did. He settled down right next to me, his body warm and solid against the cold night. I leaned into him, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing calm the storm of emotions swirling inside. Somehow, Max was more than just my dog in that moment.

He was my steady ground, the one thing keeping me from drifting off into the loneliness. With him there, the shadows didn’t seem quite so heavy, and the van felt a bit more like home. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, the tight knot in my chest loosening, just enough for sleep to come. Tomorrow, I’d figure out where I was going. But for tonight, I wasn’t alone.

I must have woken up a hundred times that night. Every creak and shift in the van pulled me back from sleep, and by the time the sun started creeping through the windows, I’d had enough. I threw off the blankets and climbed out of bed, hoping that getting moving might distract me from everything I’d been feeling.

I fed Max, boiled water for coffee, and tried to settle into a simple routine. It felt strange, almost like I was acting out someone else’s morning, but I went through the motions anyway. Pour the coffee. Take a breath. Look out the window. With each small step, I felt myself settling, waking up a bit more to this new life.

Max sat nearby, watching me intently, his tail thumping when I finally sat down. I took a sip of coffee, letting its warmth ground me as I looked around at the soft light filtering through the trees. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a beginning. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

The hunger hit me out of nowhere—a hollow ache I hadn’t noticed until now. I realized I hadn’t eaten a single thing since I left. I hadn’t even thought to bring food; there was nothing worth grabbing from home, just empty cupboards and shelves that seemed to echo back at me. I’d gotten used to it, I guess—ignoring that empty feeling. But now, on my own, it wasn’t something I could just brush off.

I looked at Max and he looked back at me. I didn't say anything but he seemed to already know we were about to get going. I climbed into the front, started the old van, and started driving, praying to a God I didn't know that I would find something to eat. We didn't have mobile phones or GPS back then so I just started driving. A hot meal was all I wanted in that moment. Fortunately, there were no other cars on the road at that time so I drove slow enough that I could keep a lookout for someplace warm.

Not the actual diner but it looked very similar

I can’t remember the name of the place, but it looked nice enough—a small roadside diner with a flickering neon sign in the window. I parked the van, leaving Max inside, and headed in. The moment I stepped through the door, everyone turned to stare. It was like I’d just walked in from another planet, and they were seeing a person like me for the first time. I’ll explain that look later, but in that moment, I felt every set of eyes lingering a little too long.

Then a sweet older waitress caught my eye, giving me a warm smile. “Sit wherever you like, hon,” she called out. Her voice was soft, like she could sense I needed a little kindness. I chose a spot at the counter, far enough from anyone else. The place smelled like coffee and pancakes, and for the first time in a while, I felt myself start to relax, even if just a little.

As I sat there, a man settled onto the stool a couple of seats down. He looked like he’d spent his life in that diner—a well-worn cap resting on graying hair, his face etched with lines that could’ve come from both laughter and long days in the sun. His clothes were a bit worn, hands rough and calloused, the kind that tell stories all on their own. I remember as soon as he sat down a coffee was placed in front of him. Like he'd been coming to this diner and sitting in that exact seat since the place opened.

“Where you from?” he asked. His voice reminded me of a mechanic that used to work down the street from where I grew up. It was a deeper voice and he spoke slow like he was never in a hurry.

I didn't know how to answer. I'm not sure if it was the sad look in my eyes or that I didn't respond fast enough but he seemed to know I didn't want to tell him. Without waiting for me to respond he jumped in and started talking. I don't think he was asking me so he could share himself. Instead, I think he started telling me his story because he knew I didn't want to share mine.

“My wife passed a few years back,” he said, his gaze drifting to the worn countertop as he spoke. “Been on my own since. Got a daughter, though—she’s about your age, I’d say. Moved to the big city. Tries to make it work out there.” He chuckled, though there was a bit of sadness in it. “Only calls when she needs money, but… I send it every time. Happy just to hear her voice.”

I listened, feeling the tension I’d carried in with me start to ease. There was something comforting in his voice, the way he just kept talking, sharing pieces of his life with a stranger without asking for anything back. His stories filled the quiet, his words warm and familiar, like they’d been waiting for someone to catch them. It felt good to sit there and listen, wrapped up in someone else’s world for a change.

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel the urge to pull away.

I started to notice how everyone in the diner seemed to know each other—nods, smiles, easy conversations drifting around like they’d all done this a hundred times before. I must have looked a little puzzled, trying to piece together the feeling of familiarity that hung in the air, because when the man caught my expression, he chuckled softly.

“We’ve all been coming here, sitting in these exact seats, for years,” he said with a grin. “You’re the only new face we’ve seen in here at this hour in months.”

His words made me feel both seen and out of place at the same time. I was an outsider, drifting through the middle of their long-established routine. But somehow, instead of feeling awkward, I felt almost welcomed, like I was part of the morning ritual, if only for today. His smile made me feel like, maybe, I was exactly where I needed to be, at least for this moment.

I didn't know it at the time but this is probably the moment that my life as a nomad began. Sitting in a new place, surrounded by people I didn't know who somehow felt like I'd known them all my life, I felt like I belonged, even though it was the first time I was there. It was a feeling I didn’t know I’d been missing—a blend of comfort and detachment, of being part of something without being tied down. That feeling would follow me, becoming something of a guide, a reminder that home wasn’t a place but the moments and people that brought me to life, no matter where I was.

As we talked, I found myself starting to open up. I told him about my life, about Jake—how he’d always been there for me, how he’d been like a parent when our real ones couldn’t be. I mentioned Max, how Jake had left him with me, this small piece of himself that I could hold onto. And then I let it slip. That I left home. That I was out here without a plan.

The old man listened without interrupting, just sipping his coffee, with enough eye contact that I knew he was listening but not too much that made me feel overwhelmed. When I was done speaking, he took a few moments to gather his thoughts and then said something that changed my life. “You know,” he started, “every time my daughter comes home, she says, ‘I’m glad to be home,’ even though she hasn’t lived with me in years.” He paused, then dropped a bomb. “Home is where you feel loved.”

Those words landed hard, sinking in deep. He looked me in the eye and asked, “So, where do you feel loved?”

Without thinking, I pictured Jake—the way he’d always been there, right up until the day he wasn’t. I wondered, just for a second, if maybe I could find him. Then I remembered how he’d once talked about heading down south, surfing and living by the beach. I didn’t know exactly where, but it was something, a direction. And right now, that was all I needed.

Previous Chapter: Breaking Free: How I Escaped a Toxic Home to Live in a Van 

Next Chapter: Where Loneliness Fades