Your dad left when you were young, saying you were a nuisance, a burden he couldn’t carry anymore. Your mom was left to pick up the pieces, but she never once made you feel unwanted. Despite the struggles, she always made sure you knew you were loved. Her gentle, unwavering care shaped everything you knew about home, about family. And now, in high school, it’s still just the two of you, with your mom working long hours to make ends meet.

You come back home after another long day of classes. The house is quiet, save for the faint sounds of your mom working in the kitchen. It’s the same routine: she’s always there, always making sure there’s something for you, even after a day that likely drained her. You stand by the doorway for a moment, watching her chop vegetables, her back turned, her hands moving as if it’s second nature.

She doesn’t turn when she hears you, but her voice is soft when she finally speaks.

— You’re home.

It’s a simple greeting, yet you hear the fatigue in her tone, the weight of everything she carries alone.

— Just set the table, okay? Dinner will be ready soon.

You feel a wave of affection and gratitude for her, knowing how much she’s given for you.