I was five or six years old. We lived in Zaporizhzhia. We didn’t have wealth, but we had warmth. Mom worked, came home late, and was often exhausted. Yet, every Saturday, we went to the market together. I would hold her hand, feeling as though I had the whole world in my pocket.

She was a strict woman. She didn’t hug me often, nor did she say "I love you." But every morning, a bowl of porridge would be waiting for me on the table. And in the evening—a book she would read aloud to me, even if she drifted off to sleep right over the page. I remember the scene: she’s sitting in the armchair, the book has slipped onto her chest, her eyes are closed. I look at her and realize: she is tired. And yet, she was right there. With me.

That was likely when I decided to become a teacher. Not consciously—I simply absorbed it. I saw how tired she got, yet she always found the strength to carry on. I watched how she explained things—patiently, over and over again. I looked at her and thought: *I want to be like that. I want to pass on something important. I want someone, someday, to sit and listen to me just as I listened to her.*

I am forty-one now. I live in Kyiv. I work at a school, teaching children foreign languages ​​and literature. Mom is alive—she’s in Zaporizhzhia with Dad and my younger sister, Lena. My older brother, Egor, is at the front. We talk on the phone. Often. I no longer wait for someone else to say "I love you" first. I say it myself. Because I’ve realized: silence is a form of loss, too. And I don’t want to lose anything else.

I’ve grown up. But when I return to Zaporizhzhia and Mom meets me at the door—wearing that same dark gray coat she still has—I’m that little girl again. The one holding her hand. And knowing that everything will be okay.

Do you have a scent or a moment from childhood that takes you back in time?

Alexandra