Chapter 20: The Morning of Return

Chapter 20: The Morning of Return
I sat on the floor, unpacking my suitcase, setting each small object back in its old place. Every item felt like a fragment of a former life: a scarf with frayed corners, a dark-covered notebook, a few old photographs faded but still holding clear smiles. I brushed the dust from each piece, my heart sinking. Each touch flickered like a snapshot in my mind: a winter morning when Mother wrapped that scarf around me at the bus stop; a summer afternoon writing in this notebook as the wind lifted the pages; the laughter of friends in the photograph at school. All of it at once familiar and far away.

After three years, the room had changed little. The old painting on the wall still hung slightly askew, a field of gold at harvest. The pale blue paint on the walls had faded, yet the scent of lavender from the wardrobe lingered, curling gently through the air as if three years apart had been only a dream. The thin curtains stirred in the breeze; early light slipped through their gaps, laying a strip of gold across the wooden floor, illuminating the scattered fragments of memory.

Outside the window, sparrows chirped and the faint ding-ding of a streetcar floated up from the distant street. The morning wind threaded through the trees, carrying the smell of damp earth and a few drops of dew, so the room no longer felt sealed but breathing softly with the world beyond.

The door creaked open. I startled and looked up. Mother stood at the threshold—still the same figure, but thinner now, with more silver in her hair. In her hands was a white porcelain plate holding several small pastries, their crusts golden, still hot. Steam curled up, carrying the rich scent of butter and a trace of cinnamon. That fragrance mingled with the pale morning light, warm enough to make my heart tighten.

“Eat, dear. I made them myself,” she said, her voice trembling, as if she were trying to hide her emotion while keeping her composure.

I quickly pulled the wooden chair beside the bed. “Sit here with me, Mom.”

She stepped in and set the plate down. As she sat, I reached out, my eyes fixed on her face. A smile rose to my lips, though my heart was tight. Shards of memory rushed back: her deft hands kneading dough, the clink of a spoon against a metal bowl, the oven ticking cheerfully, the smell filling our small kitchen.

I didn’t eat right away. I placed the plate on the bedside table, then slowly leaned my head against her shoulder. Her shoulder was thin but warm, smelling of old wool and familiar soap. Three years… and a single moment like this was enough to make my heart tremble.

I found her hands and clasped them, afraid that if I let go this moment would vanish. “Mom… I’ve missed you so much these three years…”

She stayed silent for a few breaths. Then her other hand moved to smooth my hair, straightening my collar as she had always done. Her fingers trembled, feeling for proof that I was really there. “Me too. I missed you so much I couldn’t sleep at night. Night after night I blamed myself… blamed myself for not protecting you better…”

Her words were like a blade pressing into my heart. My throat closed; I forced the words out. “No, it was my fault… I’m the ungrateful child…” Before I finished, my eyes blurred. Tears spilled, falling onto her thin hands.

Mother drew me close, wrapping me in her arms. Her embrace was the same as when I was a child, each gentle stroke across my back like a lullaby. I pressed my face into her shoulder, breathing in flour and damp wool and the salt of tears. “Mom… I’m sorry…” The phrase broke from me again and again, trembling like a long-suppressed ache.

She sighed softly, her silver hair brushing my cheek like silk. “When the news reported your reappearance, your father and I sent people to look for you, to bring you home. But thank goodness you came back yourself… before we could do anything.”

Her voice fell quiet—not accusing, only full of love. I bit my lip, unable to answer, only holding her hands tighter as if loosening them would make me lost again.

After a while she tilted her head to look at me. Her eyes were red, the corners lined deep with years, but her gaze still bright, still gentle. “After three years… have you recovered your memories?”

I said nothing, only gave a small nod. Inside me swirled a hundred explanations—Should I tell her the truth? Should I stay a few more days?—but they all sank back down. Her eyes softened, carrying understanding and acceptance.

Suddenly the phone rang, a sharp sound slicing through the hush of the room. I flinched and reached for it.

“Ms. Dawson,” a man’s voice droned on the other end, businesslike, without feeling. “You’re needed at the company today to sign some documents.”

I drew a deep breath, glancing at Mother. For a heartbeat I wavered—Should I leave her now? Cancel the appointment? But duty pulled me under. I steadied my voice. “Yes, I’ll come.” I hung up. The click was dry, final, like a line closing between two worlds—one of family warmth, the other of responsibilities waiting.

Turning back to Mother, I spoke softly: “Mom, I need to go out for a bit…”

She looked up, worry flickering in her eyes. “Where are you going?”

I rose, hastily pulling on my coat. “I have some things to handle. I’ll be back by noon.”

She sat there, hands folded neatly on her lap, her eyes following me. The plate of pastries still rested on the bedside table, warm, steam curling up as if holding me back. She whispered, her voice very small, like an old habit: “Remember to keep warm…” That everyday phrase was a slender thread tying all the huge emotions together.

I bent down and kissed her forehead.

Then I walked to the door. My heels tapped against the wooden floor, each step like a clock counting time. I looked back: she sat small and still beside the untouched pastries. In her eyes lay three years of waiting, weary but full of hope. Through the half-open window sparrows still chattered, the morning breeze stirring the curtains, and I caught a glimpse of her shadow leaning in the sunlight.

The door closed behind me. Outside, the cool morning wind slid past, city sounds murmuring in the distance, but on my shoulder lingered her warmth, the sweetness of the pastries, and the faint trace of old lavender.