Sunlit Tea and Homecomings

After a long, draining day at the office, she slips off her shoes and puts the kettle on. The gentle hush of the kitchen settles around her. She listens to the soft hiss of water heating, punctuated by the occasional click and pop—small, familiar sounds that promise comfort after hours under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Each subtle noise seems to stretch the quiet, filling her with a fragile sense of anticipation.

She moves with slow, deliberate care. Opening the cupboard, she pauses, letting her fingers drift over a colourful array of tea boxes and tins. The labels bring memories of lazy Sundays and cheerful visits from close friends. Her hand hesitates on one box—a bright, petal-strewn blend usually reserved for company. The cool, smooth ceramic of her favourite mug feels reassuring as she lifts it from the shelf, grounding her in a moment of gentle routine.

Today, she chooses the special tea. The fragrant blend, bursting with vibrant citrus zest and delicate blossoms, unfurls in the air. She inhales deeply and smiles, deciding she doesn't need to wait for guests to savour something beautiful. Lately, she's been letting go of the old belief that pleasure must be rationed. Her quiet mantra floats through her mind: every day can be memorable—why not treat herself?

She wishes for a biscuit but can't be bothered driving to the shops. Instead, she decides a cup of tea on its own will do. As the late arvo sun pours across the back garden, painting the world in a golden glow, she steps outside. The steam from her mug rises, carrying the floral aroma—citrus, honey, jasmine—mingling with the earthy scent of freshly cut grass. She settles into her favourite seat, palms curled around the comforting heat of the mug, letting herself breathe out the stress of the day.

The peace of the garden seeps into her bones. Birds warble from the power lines, their melodies rising and falling, while the soft rustle of gum leaves dances on the breeze. Sunlight brushes her face, warm and gentle. Each sip of tea is a tiny celebration—the bright notes of citrus, the lingering sweetness of honey. She smiles, thinking, perhaps this blend will become her new favourite. She has always reached for English breakfast without thinking, but today feels different—brighter, more open to small joys.

Her thoughts drift, unhurried, like gum leaves swirling down the path. She remembers countless afternoons spent with her daughter at this very table. There were days in spring when they shared laughter over matching mugs, dunking spiced biscuits and watching the magpies chase shadows. Her daughter would spin school stories, crumbling her biscuit into her tea and giggling when it splashed. Those moments glow in her memory—her daughter's hair catching the sun, casual conversations that stretched for hours, the warmth of connection held in every shared glance.

Now, the garden is quieter—her daughter moved out years ago for university, chasing new dreams in Sydney. Though she misses her, she never would have asked her to stay, not when the world was calling. The ache of nostalgia is gentle but persistent, stirred by the hush of an empty house and the echo of laughter in the rustling leaves.

Gradually, hope stirs alongside memory. She's been quietly saving for a surprise trip to London, where her daughter now lives. Each extra shift at work leaves her weary, but the thought of a reunion keeps her going. Flights grow dearer by the week, but she's determined. She glances at her phone, checking the time difference—a little after 3 am in London, far too early to call. A flutter of anticipation runs through her. She promises herselfshe'lll ring tomorrow, longing to share a sliver of this peaceful arvo and to hear her daughter's voice once again.

She cradles her mug, the sweet, floral aroma rising with the steam. Their last conversation surfaces in her mind—her daughter had been vague about her mid-semester break, brushing aside gentle offers of money. Sensing the pressure of exams, she let the topic go, not wanting to spark an argument. Still, anxiety lingers beneath the garden's calm, every hopeful sound echoing with quiet worry. She tries to remind herself not to make mountains out of molehills, though the habit is hard to break.

Lost in thought, she almost misses the sound at first—a knock at the door, hesitant but real. Her heart leaps. Who could it be at this hour? Every muscle tenses with anticipation. She opens the door, and for a moment, the world stops. Her daughter stands on the threshold, suitcase at her feet, eyes bright with excitement. Disbelief crashes over her, quickly swept aside by a wave of joy so powerful she can hardly breathe.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she pulls her daughter into a fierce embrace. The feeling is electric—her daughter's arms, strong and warm, the shape of her shoulders achingly familiar. The scent of sunshine, shampoo, and something indefinably hers wraps around them like a memory made real. The garden seems to burst into celebration: golden light dazzles, birdsong swells, every breeze feels alive with happiness.

The fragrance of tea mingles with her daughter's scent, filling the moment with a deep, sensory joy. Everything else blurs into the background as mother and daughter hold each other, hearts finally, blissfully, at home. She can't believe her daughter managed to get home without giving away the surprise. The memory of their last conversation—the words left unspoken, the worries—seems to fade in the golden light.

As they stand together, laughter bubbling up and mingling with the magpies and the rustling leaves, she feels happiness return—simple, sudden, complete. Later, at the threshold, her daughter admits she'd been planning the homecoming for weeks. Gratitude and love settle over them, as warm and golden as the arvo sun. In that precious moment, everything feels right again—a world made whole by a single, unexpected knock at the door.

So she puts the kettle on again. As she made a pot of tea with her daughter, she even made a pitstop to get a pack of her favourite biscuits.