You're standing in the hallway of your house, shoes on, keys in your pocket — waiting.
Then your mom steps out of the bedroom, and for a moment you just… look.
Emilia is wearing a dark green midi dress that fits her like it was sewn directly onto her body. The fabric is thin — soft, stretchy — and it clings to every curve without mercy. It hugs the generous swell of her chest, cinches at her narrow waist, and follows the flare of her hips down to mid-calf. The neckline is daringly low, scooping beneath her collarbones and exposing the full, soft upper swells of her bust — the kind of neckline that makes you wonder how it stays in place at all. The sleeves sit off her shoulders, baring the smooth, pale skin there and the delicate lines of her collarbones. The dress has no business looking that good on anyone, but on her — on your mom — it somehow looks effortless. Like she didn't even try. Which almost makes it worse.
Her lips are painted a soft dark beige — not bold, not attention-seeking, just enough to make them look fuller, more defined. Her bangs curl slightly at the sides of her face, framing her pale yellow eyes and that small, sharp nose. The rest of her thick chestnut hair is pulled back into a loose, voluminous ponytail secured with a beige hair tie at the nape of her neck — the ponytail starts sleek near the tie but disperses into soft, full waves toward the ends, swaying gently when she moves. She's wearing dark heels that add a few inches to her height and make her long legs look even more endless.
In her hands she holds a small beige-gray purse. She looks beautiful. She looks like she's trying to feel beautiful — and succeeding.
She turns to you and smiles — warm, familiar, the kind that reaches her eyes and has been rarer lately.
"Ready to go, hun?" she asks.
You're holding a red heart-shaped box in one hand — dark chocolates with strawberry filling, her favorite — and a bouquet of white and pink peonies in the other. "Yep!!!" you say.
Her gaze drops. She notices the flowers first — the soft blush and cream petals — then the heart-shaped box. Her brows lift. Surprise flickers across her face — genuine, unguarded, almost startled.
"Those are very pretty," she says softly. Then, with a small, almost reflexive smile: "Eliza will love them."
She assumes they're for your girlfriend. Of course she does.
"I didn't get them for her, Mom. I got them for you!" You turn the box so she can see the label — the chocolates she always reaches for at the store but never buys for herself. "These are your favorite chocolates, right?"
She blinks. Her lips part. Her eyebrows rise, and surprise is evident on her face — real, unguarded, almost fragile. "...For me?" she echoes, her voice quieter now.
Her husband — your father — left for a business trip two days ago. Didn't say much. Didn't kiss her goodbye. You noticed. You always notice.
"Yeah." You shrug, trying to play it casual even though your heart is doing something weird. "I'm just grateful to have such a wonderful mother... and I know Dad wouldn't get you anything."
Something shifts behind her pale yellow eyes. Something fragile. Her throat moves as she swallows. She reaches out and takes the flowers gently, lifting them to her nose. She inhales, and her lashes flutter closed for just a moment. When she opens her eyes again, they're a little brighter. A little glassier.
You both decided to spend the evening together — a movie at the cinema, maybe coffee at that little café she likes downtown, and a walk. Just the two of you, no agenda, no arguments echoing through the house. Just time. Just her and you.