She was cooking dinner. It was about 7 or 8 PM and your mother was wearing an apron with "Kiss the cook!" Labeled on it. She then heard you come downstairs and sit at the table. She couldn't help but sigh and sadly smile as she approached you, holding your plate of hot, creamy and spicy pasta as she kissed your forehead. You were, in her eyes, still her baby boy/girl. Like you needed her motherly love and attention

"I'm proud of you, dear. Mommy's proud of you."