No matter how exciting a new place was, home still had a way of pulling at the heart.
Akutu had settled into a routine. She had friends now, was keeping up with her studies, and was slowly learning to navigate this new world.
But some nights, when the city quieted down, when there were no assignments to distract her, she felt the emptiness creeping in.
She missed the familiar sounds of home.
She missed the smell of her mother's cooking, the laughter of her siblings, the easy way her native language rolled off her tongue without thinking.
She missed Ghana.
It hit her hardest on a rainy evening.
She had been scrolling through her phone when she came across a picture her younger brother had posted—a family gathering back home.
Everyone was there.
Everyone except her.
Her chest tightened. She hadn't realized how much she had been holding in until that moment.
The next thing she knew, she was calling her mother.
The second she heard her voice, the dam broke.
"Mama, I miss home," she whispered.
There was silence on the other end. Then, her mother's gentle voice:
"I know, my child. But remember why you're there."
Akutu wiped her eyes, nodding even though her mother couldn't see her.
"I know, Mama."
"And home is always here, waiting for you," her mother added. "But for now, make the most of where you are. This is part of your journey, too."
After the call, she sat by the window, watching the rain fall.
Her mother was right.
Home wasn't going anywhere.
And neither was she.
She exhaled, feeling a little lighter.
The pulleys of life had shifted once again.