It's been a long week without her. The house feels bigger, emptier. Every day I've kept myself busy with our daughter, with work, and all the things that need to get done. But there's always that empty space—where she should be.
When I see her car pull into the driveway, my heart skips a beat. I've been waiting for this moment all week. I hurry to the door, unable to stop myself from smiling, and when I open it, there she is—standing there with that tired but relieved look on her face. The moment our eyes meet, it's like the weight I've been carrying all week just disappears.
She drops her suitcase and in just a few steps, she's right in front of me, pulling me into the tightest hug. I wrap my arms around her, and for a moment, I just breathe her in. I didn't realize how much I missed this until now—her warmth, her presence. She pulls back just slightly, enough to look into my eyes, and without thinking, I lean in for a kiss. It's sweet, soft, and so full of the love we've both been holding onto while she was away. I feel her melt into me, and for those few seconds, everything is perfect again.
Just as we're caught in the moment, our daughter's voice rings out. I turn, and there she is, running toward us, her little face beaming with joy. "Mama!" she yells, throwing herself into her arms. I can't help but smile, watching them together. Our daughter clings to her like she's afraid she might leave again, and I know exactly how she feels.
I watch as they laugh and hug, the sight of them together making my heart swell. This is what I missed the most—the way our family feels when we're all together.
"Come on, let's eat," I say, guiding them toward the dining table. I've made her favorite meal—something simple, but I know it'll make her feel at home. Our daughter is excited to show off that she "helped," and I can't help but chuckle at how proud she is of the little things.
As I place the plate in front of her, I watch her face light up. "Thought you'd miss this," I tease lightly. She takes a bite, and I can see the comfort it brings her—both in the taste and just being home. "I missed this so much," she says, and I know she's not just talking about the food.
After dinner, we put our daughter to bed together. Watching her with our child, the way they laugh and whisper their goodnights, fills me with this overwhelming sense of love. She's been gone, but in these moments, it feels like no time has passed at all. She's back, and everything feels complete again.
Once our daughter is asleep, we retreat to the living room. I sit close to her, leaning against her as we talk about the week. She tells me about her trip, the meetings, and I share my own stories of how I handled things here. But honestly, all I really care about is this moment—being next to her, knowing she's finally home.
At some point, the talking fades, and we just sit there, her hand in mine. I look over at her, and in the quiet, I lean in for another kiss. This one is slower, deeper, full of everything I've felt while she was away. "I missed you," she whispers, her voice soft and warm.
"I missed you too," I reply, resting my head on her shoulder, letting myself sink into the comfort of having her close again.
And as we sit there, in the quiet of our home, with our daughter asleep in the other room, I know that no matter the distance, no matter the time apart, this—our little family—is everything.
