The kitchen was always warmer than the rest of the house. Not just from the stove, but from something quieter, something that settled into the walls over time. I didn’t notice it back then. I just knew that when Mother was cooking, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I remember the sound before anything else. The soft clatter of utensils, the rhythm of something being stirred, the low hum of a pot just beginning to boil. It meant we would eat soon. It meant everything was, for that moment, exactly as it should be. Mother never rushed. Even when she was tired, even when the day had taken more than it gave, she moved like the act of cooking mattered. Like it was the one thing she could still shape with her own hands. I used to sit at the table and watch, my chin just above the edge, breathing in whatever filled the room that day. And I was happy. Not in the loud, obvious way. It was quieter than that. The kind of happiness that doesn’t ask questions. The kind that assumes it will always be there. When the food finally came, it wasn’t just food. It was proof. That she was there. That we were together. That something good had been made, just for us. I didn’t thank her the way I should have. None of us did. We ate, we talked, we laughed sometimes. And then it ended, like all ordinary things do, without announcing that it would one day be something you’d miss. Now, when I try to remember what happiness felt like, I don’t think of big moments. I think of that kitchen. Of sitting at the table. Of waiting. Of eating Mother’s food, and not knowing it wouldn’t last.