For three days, Ana had scrubbed every nook of the house as if dust were not the enemy but the time that had kept her apart from her son.
She lay awake at night, though the bus would not reach the village until early afternoon. Sleep was impossible anyway. Costel was coming home after five years in Italyfive years he had been seen only in the occasional photo and in video calls that faltered on a weak internet line.
In the kitchen, dough for cozonac rested beneath a clean cloth. The night before she had prepared the meat for sarmale, rolled each leaf by hand until late, and let the little rolls simmer over a low flame for hours, filling the house with the scent of Costels childhood. She had also baked a cheese pie, just the way he liked it as a boy.
Now Ana stared at herself in the bedroom mirror. She had brushed her hair carefully, placed a newly bought market scarf on her head, and examined the fine lines around her eyes. Fiftyeight years had left their marks, as had the labor of the fields, the worry for the household, and the longing for her only child.
Will he even recognize me? she wondered, then laughed at the absurdity of the thought. She was his mother, after all. But him? Had Italy changed him? Does he still speak Romanian the same way? Will he feel ashamed of the old house and the dusty village lanes?
Neighbors drifted by the gate all morning, pretending to be busy while actually watching the preparations. Anas boy is coming back, they whispered. Hes become a fine gentleman in Italy.
Only those who have raised children and seen them leave understand how each waiting day stretches like a tiny eternity.
Around noon she began to set the table in the large room used only for celebrations. She laid out the embroidered tablecloth, polished cutlery, and the good china taken from the cabinet that stays closed most of the year. In the centre, a crystal vase held fresh flowers from the garden.
When she finished, she stepped into the yard and sat on the walnut bench. From there she could see the main road and hear the bus as it approached the village center. Several more hours remained, but she was ready to wait, her heart beating like a young girls before a first meeting.
How many parents in Romanian villages wait like this? How many mothers count the days between visits from children sent far away? No sacrifice seemed too great for a better life for her son, yet the loneliness sometimes weighed heavily.
At a quarter to four, the distant bus horn sounded. She rose, smoothed her dress, adjusted her hair. She stood still for a moment, as if drawing strength from the earth beneath her, then walked toward the gate.
The bus halted in the village square, kicking up a cloud of dust. A few people disembarkeda elderly woman with bags, two teenagers, a middleaged man. Finally, a tall young man in a navy suit stepped out, a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
Anas heart clenched. It was him, and yet not exactly. He was taller than she remembered, slimmer, with shortcut hair and a stylish outfit that made him look out of place in the rural setting. A flash of uncertainty passed over her.
Then the suited man looked up. His eyes lit up, a smile reshaped his face. He dropped the suitcase and sprinted toward her.
Mom! he shouted from a distance.
In that instant, the elegant suit mattered little. He was the boy who ran home from school, the teenager who helped in the garden, the young man who had promised to return no matter how far he went. In his eyes Ana saw the same warmth, the same love.
When he reached her, Costel paused a beat, as if confirming she was indeed his mother. He then pulled her into his arms, gripping her so tightly her breath seemed to catch.
Mom, he whispered, his face buried in her shoulder. My mother.
Tears streamed down Anas cheeks. Words failed her. She held him tight, just as she had when he was small and she feared losing him in a crowd. He smelled of expensive aftershave and foreign lands, but he was still her son.
Come inside, Ana finally said, wiping her tears. Ive been waiting for you.
Costel handed her the bouquetwhite roseslifted his suitcase, and offered his arm. Together they walked down the village lane toward the house with its wideopen windows and a table set for his return.
As they moved slowly along the dusty road, Ana felt the years of solitude melt away like snow under spring sunshine. It mattered not how long he would stay, nor whether he might leave again. He was here, by her side, and in that moment the world felt perfectly whole.
