Mom went to the market this morning, leaving the small house unusually quiet. The sunlight fell through the open windows, warming the wooden floorboards, but still my little brother stood in the doorway with trembling lips. “Don’t cry, brother,” I whispered, reaching out to take his hand. “She’ll be back soon. She promised she wouldn’t be long.”
He nodded, but the worry stayed in his eyes. Mom always left early to buy fresh vegetables, rice, and the treats she knew we loved. Still, every departure felt like an eternity to him. I guided him to the woven mat near the window and sat beside him, hoping to distract him with the stories Mom often told us.
“Do you remember what she said yesterday?” I asked. “She told us that the market is full of colors—bright red chilies, golden mangoes, green herbs that smell like the garden after rain.” My brother’s eyes widened a little, the hint of a smile touching his face. I continued, painting pictures with words the way Mom did, describing the chatter of vendors and the scent of warm bread drifting through the stalls.
He leaned against me, calmer now, though still listening for footsteps outside. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Mom always comes back,” I reminded him gently. “She goes so she can bring us what we need—and sometimes a surprise.”
Time passed slowly but peacefully. Birds chirped outside, and a soft breeze rustled the curtains. When at last we heard the familiar sound of Mom’s sandals on the path, my brother sprang to his feet, joy replacing his fear. She stepped inside carrying two heavy bags and an even heavier smile.
“See?” I said softly. “No need to cry, brother.”
We welcomed her warmly, grateful for the simple comfort of her return today.
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