Adult life replicates childhood in so many ways.
As a kid, I lived with one family, visited the other. Not fully part of either.

Two lives, two households, then and now. Different incidental characters at each. Part of one small universe, then another. Events take place; I'm not there.

Need time to get used to being there.  Then a period of adjustment on returning home. I can't describe it, but if you knew me, you'd be able to hear it in my voice; see it, even. Both of my parents remarked about this then.

Everything differed at each place. Everything: Food; types of conversation and visitors; my appearance, even.

Cream cheese and jelly and soft-boiled eggs at my father's. At mother's, fancier fare: occasional lamb chops, "fish kabobs;" Mrs. Paul's candied sweet potatoes, filet of sole. Libbyland Dinners, chicken potpies, processed mac and cheese. (In the country, the bookstore-café. Here in town, it's easier to find organic produce and fish, strange as that may sound.)

Clean, brushed, prettily dressed by my mother. Uncombed, unkempt, unwashed, not all that nicely turned out by my stepmother. (I dress presentably in the country--never know whom I might run into--apathetically in town. )

Still find creature comforts in one home, security in neither; noise; insomnia. Wonder about someone going through my things in my absence; worry about my wellbeing.

Now, when I drive to the house, I feel anxious, scared. In this case, of what I might find there. Then, of what I knew I would.

The drive to my father's house filled me with dread; I still feel echoes of it whenever I travel, especially alone (which is most of the time). Dad was kind, but his wife mistreated me badly. Every other Friday, on the walk home from school, I'd look for his car in the driveway and hope it wouldn't be there yet. Just a few minutes more.

Before that, my mother and I and, later, her husband, lived in an apartment in the city. As D and I do today. My father would pick me up there and drive me to the country. At first, I would bound from the car, stand at the edge of the hill and roll to the bottom. Then, as now, nature, especially after the confinement of the city, thrilled me. Then, as now, drawn to hills.  

A small creek ran behind that house. A river flows near mine.

After I moved in with my father and his newer family (obviously a bad decision), I carried my suitcase on the interstate bus to my mother's house instead, for a few days each couple of weeks; didn't unpack for such short stays. Don’t unpack these days, either.

Then, as now, a long drive.  A prettier trip today. I make my own schedule, though it's also true that I can't read on the way, except for audio books; few passengers, zero perverts. Then as now, it occurs to me, I remained in an unhappy situation because of a man I didn’t want to leave.

Of course, adult life carries minimal victimization. You have so much more power and choice. I decide when to come home, when to leave, whether to spend money, what I want to eat, where I'd like to go.  Even where I call home.