Maria never had great luxuries or distant travels…

Her world always revolved around those four walls, in her humble kitchen, with her old stove, hanging pots, and the aroma of freshly baked bread filling the air.

Her life was built on the simple routine of someone who needed nothing more than the essentials: her home, her hands busy with dough, and the company of two cats that seemed to understand her silence better than anyone.

Years ago, when her husband was still alive, this kitchen was the heart of the home. The afternoons were filled with laughter, shared meals, and unhurried conversations. Each day had its rhythm, and time seemed to flow slowly but pleasurably.

Then, one by one, her children grew up, packed their bags, and left, promising to return. But life is quick, and time doesn’t wait. Letters became phone calls, phone calls turned into brief messages, and after that, a silence Maria had to get used to.

Now, at 85, with tired bones, Maria still sits in her old wooden chair, waiting without really waiting. Her hands, which once rocked her children to sleep, now rest on her lap, with no other task but to recall the past. Her cats, faithful companions, watch her with the loyalty that few humans are capable of offering.

Maria smiles, but not because she is happy. She smiles because she has learned that sadness also wears the clothes of resignation. Her children call her from time to time, saying they will come soon. She nods, pretending to believe. There is no bitterness in her gaze, only the melancholy of someone who knew how to give everything without expecting anything in return.

The water in the pot begins to boil. An automatic gesture makes Maria get up, stir the soup, and fill a plate. Just one. Because life goes on, even though the house has become empty.

And tomorrow, perhaps, the phone will ring. Maybe an unexpected visit. Perhaps, the promise of “soon” will turn into “today.” Perhaps…

But that morning, something different happened. The sound of the doorbell echoed through the silent house, breaking the calm, habitual rhythm of the routine. Maria stood up with a lightness in her eyes, almost not believing what she heard. When she opened the door, she found her children, not just in spirit but there, in the flesh, with sincere smiles and tears in their eyes.

“We’re back, mom,” said the oldest son, while the youngest daughter hugged her tightly.

And Maria, finally, felt that time had, in some way, kept the promise she had never dared to demand: the return of what she loved most.

At that moment, with the house once again filled with laughter and stories, Maria felt that the wait had been worth it. And, while the soup still steamed in the pot, she knew that, no matter how much time passed, a mother’s love never gets lost. It always finds its way back.