Time had flown faster than I could have imagined. Six months had passed in what felt like mere weeks.
Work at Denube IT had been absorbing, challenging, and full of learning, but now my first real holiday had arrived.
I was given ten days off, just as the festive season was approaching—a perfect opportunity to return to my hometown.
In the evening, I boarded the bus, suitcase in hand, and watched as the city I had grown used to over the past months slowly slipped away.
Denube's streets, bustling yet familiar, blurred past the window.
Streetlights flickered like scattered stars, and the faint hum of traffic created a rhythmic backdrop to my thoughts.
As the bus wound its way through the city, I reflected on the past six months—the projects I had contributed to, the small victories, the late evenings spent debugging code, and the fleeting moments of connection with colleagues.
Despite the hectic days, I had grown comfortable here, and yet the thought of returning home filled me with a warm, almost nostalgic excitement.
The road ahead stretched into the night, lined with occasional clusters of trees and small towns that seemed to appear and vanish in the glow of the headlights.
I leaned back in my seat, letting the gentle sway of the bus carry me, feeling the weight of routine lift, replaced by anticipation.
I thought about the festive season back home—the familiar smells, the sounds of celebration, and the faces of family and friends I hadn't seen in months.
For the first time in a while, life felt paused, if only for ten days, and I intended to make the most of it.
Home town is beautiful as ever.
No place felt as comforting as one's hometown—the familiar streets, the faint smell of evening air mixed with food from nearby kitchens, and the soft glow of streetlights all wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
It was late—around 9 PM—when I finally reached home.
I rang the bell, and the door swung open. Mom stood there, her face lighting up as she saw me.
Somehow, she had come home early from her office, just to make sure she was here when I arrived.
"James! You're finally home!" she exclaimed, pulling me into a tight hug. The familiar scent of her perfume mixed with the aroma of dinner still on the stove.
I felt an immediate sense of belonging, the kind only home could offer.
"I missed you, Mom," I said, trying to match her energy.
She laughed softly, ruffling my hair. "And I missed you too. Come in, come in! You must be tired from the journey."
Stepping inside, I noticed the small touches that made home feel like home—framed pictures on the wall, the comfortable sofa,
and the faint hum of the ceiling fan. Everything seemed unchanged, yet somehow warmer after months away.
We spent the next few minutes catching up. Mom asked about my work, my colleagues, and life in Denube, while I listened to her recount little stories from home—neighbors, family friends, and the small happenings I had missed.
It was ordinary, yet extraordinary in its comfort, a reminder of the life I had always known.
Mom looked tired—her eyes slightly heavy from a long, hectic day at the office—yet she had prepared dinner and greeted me with a bright, reassuring smile.
Watching her move around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and checking the simmering pot, I felt a surge of admiration.
For Mom, family was her world. Even though she was a working woman with responsibilities outside the home, she never compromised when it came to us.
Her dedication, her ability to balance work and family, and the quiet joy she found in caring for us reminded me of why home always felt like the safest place in the world.
I sat quietly for a moment, simply observing her.
The way she hummed a little tune while stirring the food, the careful attention she gave to each dish, the softness in her eyes when she looked at me—it all made me realize how much effort went into keeping the family together.
Life outside could be chaotic, unpredictable, and demanding, but Mom's love created a constant, steady warmth that grounded everything.
"Mom, you didn't have to wait for me," I said softly as I helped set the table.
She shook her head, smiling. "I know, but I wanted to. You've been away for six months. A little welcome home is the least I can do."
Her words, simple as they were, carried the weight of countless sacrifices and unspoken care.
Just as Mom and I were finishing preparations for dinner, the doorbell rang.
I walked over and opened the door. I knew it was Dad—he usually worked late and returned home closer to nightfall.