Real Simple has announced the topic of their next essay contest!

I returned to my tiny English village yesterday after nine days in the States. I went in search of a tiny slice of summer and that was exactly what I got. Time with my niece and sister in New York, time with my parents in DC. It was a nearly perfect visit. With the exception of two things. 
On Saturday I went to a community event on the lake where I grew up. I was cornered by a mother of a friend that I knew as a child. We haven't spoken in a decade, at least. She stood uncomfortably close to me and started screaming into my face, hammering me with questions. Perhaps she's losing her hearing, but it felt like social ineptness more than anything else.
"WHERE ARE YOU NOW?"
"England, for the summer."
"YOU'RE A NOMAD! YOU HAVE NO HOME!"
I don't know how she went from spending the summer in England to not having a home. 
"WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY??" (Not: what do you do all day, but what do you do all day.)
"I've been writing."
"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"
Seriously. She then made some comments about my quitting singing and that I lived in my parent's basement. My parents don't have a basement. But I did leave New York last fall after 13 years because my father was seriously ill. She knows that. 
Clearly, she's been talking to someone about my life and seems to be taking a little glee in what she perceives to be my failures. I call myself a nomad, and proudly. I love traveling the world with Oliver. I consider myself fortunate that I could be there for my parents when they needed me. But I suppose it makes some people feel a little better when they frame my life in pity. It was one of the reasons I was loathe to tell anyone I had cancer.