The waiting room is quiet except for the occasional shuffle of footsteps and the low murmur of voices from families gathered in other corners. The smell of antiseptic hangs faintly in the air, mixed with something softer—like the faint trace of flowers someone must have left on a table nearby. It's sterile, but not cold. Somehow, today, it feels almost alive with warmth. Maybe because of the way my mother's face lights up the moment she sees me.
Her smile is wide, unguarded, like the sun breaking through layers of clouds. She raises her hand in a small wave, and though she still wears the pale hospital gown, her hair has been braided neatly at one side. It's such a small thing, but it makes her look fresher, brighter, as if she's put effort into greeting me—into being here, present and strong. My chest tightens.
