An Evening with My Parents

 

🌙 **An Evening with My Parents**

It was a quiet Friday night. The sky outside was a deep shade of blue, and the stars had just begun to twinkle like diamonds scattered across a velvet sky. A gentle breeze moved through the trees outside, carrying the scent of jasmine from the garden.

Inside the house, everything felt still and peaceful. I turned off my phone, silencing the outside world, and made my way to the living room where my parents were waiting. We had no special occasion—just a shared desire for a quiet evening together.

My mother was in the kitchen preparing her famous spiced tea, a blend of mint, cardamom, and cloves. That scent always brought back memories of childhood, of warm evenings and comforting hugs. My father was already settled in his armchair by the window, an old photo album resting on his lap. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

I sat down beside him, and soon my mother joined us with a tray of steaming cups and freshly baked date cookies. We each took a cup, and the warm tea seemed to melt away the stress of the week.

Dad opened the photo album, its pages slightly worn from years of use. As he turned them, memories poured out—family vacations, birthday parties, school plays, silly moments captured in blurry frames. We laughed at the hairstyles, the clothes, and the expressions frozen in time.

Then came the stories. My father shared tales of his childhood adventures—climbing trees, building forts with his brothers, getting into mischief and barely escaping trouble. My mother told stories of growing up with her sisters, how they used to sneak into the kitchen to steal cookies and blame each other when caught. 

Their voices were full of life, and I could see the joy in their eyes as they remembered. It wasn’t just about the stories—it was about the way they brought us closer. I realized I was learning more about them, not just as my parents, but as people who had dreams, fears, and wild imaginations.

At one point, the electricity went out for a few minutes. But the room was already glowing with candlelight, and none of us moved. We didn’t need power. We had stories. We had warmth.

The evening continued in laughter, reflection, and quiet moments of connection. We didn’t talk about work, or responsibilities, or the outside world. Just us—together in a space filled with love and memory.

As the night grew late and the candle burned low, I felt a deep sense of peace. This was more than just an evening—it was a reminder of what truly matters. Family. Time. Presence.

And I knew, long after the tea was gone and the photo album was closed, that this evening would stay with me forever.