Evelyn POV
I woke up because something smelled good.
That alone was strange enough to pull me out of sleep slowly, cautiously, as if my body didn't quite trust it.
For a few seconds, I stayed still beneath the covers, eyes half-open, breathing shallowly. The scent lingered in the air—warm, rich, familiar in a way I couldn't immediately place. It wasn't the sharp smell of coffee or the clean neutrality of toast. This was deeper. Softer.
Like onions gently sautéed. Like spices blooming in oil. Like intention.
I frowned slightly.
Liora never cooked in the mornings. She barely survived on coffee and protein bars before work. And I definitely hadn't ordered anything.
The smell drifted again, stronger this time, curling its way through the hallway and into my room like an invitation.
Curiosity won.
I pushed the blanket aside and sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The apartment was quiet—no rushing footsteps, no voices, no television murmuring in the background. Just that smell.
I slipped out of bed, padded toward the door, and followed it down the hallway.
The kitchen light was on.
And someone was humming.
Softly. Absentmindedly. The kind of hum people made when they weren't aware anyone was listening.
I stopped just before the doorway.
At the stove stood a woman I had never met.
She was medium height, her back to me, hair tied loosely in a low bun with a few strands already escaping. She wore a simple cardigan over a faded blouse and moved with the kind of ease that came from years of repetition—not hurried, not hesitant.
A mother's rhythm.
A pan sizzled softly as she stirred, steam rising gently into the air. On the counter beside her sat chopped vegetables, neatly arranged, a bowl of eggs, a plate already holding slices of bread.
The kitchen felt… full.
Not crowded. Not loud.
Alive.
She turned slightly, reaching for salt—and froze when she noticed me.
"Oh," she said, startled. "You're awake."
Her voice was warm. Naturally so. No edge, no tension.
"I—sorry," I said automatically. "I didn't mean to—"
She smiled before I could finish.
"It's fine," she said. "I was worried the smell might wake you too early."
Too early?
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already past seven.
"I'm Evelyn," I said, suddenly unsure of where to put my hands. "I live here."
She laughed gently. "Yes, I know. Liora told me everything. I'm her mother."
Something in my chest tightened.
"Oh," I said again, softer this time.
She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and stepped closer. "Thank you," she said simply.
"For…?" I asked.
"For bringing my daughter back to me last night," she replied. "And for not letting her face it alone."
I swallowed.
"I just did what anyone would."
She shook her head. "Not everyone does."
She gestured toward the counter. "Sit. Breakfast will be ready soon."
I hesitated, then did as she said.
She resumed cooking, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't awkward. It felt… shared.
"You like eggs?" she asked after a while.
"Yes," I said. "Very much."
"Good. Liora eats them like it's a chore."
That earned a small smile from me.
"She's not a morning person."
"She's not a night person either," her mother said dryly. "She's a selective person."
I laughed quietly.
She turned the heat down and leaned against the counter. "You grew up in a big house, didn't you?"
I blinked. "How did you know?"
"You walk like someone used to space," she said gently. "But you look around like you're still not sure it belongs to you."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"I hope you don't mind me cooking," she added quickly. "Hospitals don't allow much. And when I woke up this morning and saw a proper kitchen, I thought… maybe I could do something useful."
"You don't have to be useful," I said before thinking. "You're allowed to just… be."
She looked at me then. Really looked.
"You're a kind girl," she said softly.
Before I could reply, footsteps echoed from the hallway.
"What smells like an actual miracle?" Liora's voice rang out.
She appeared in the doorway, hair slightly disheveled, eyes puffy, dark circles unmistakable—but smiling.
Then she froze.
Her gaze moved between us.
Her expression shifted from confusion… to disbelief… to mock offense.
"Wow," she said slowly. "I leave you two alone for five minutes and you bond."
Her mother snorted. "Don't be dramatic."
"I'm serious," Liora said, pointing at me. "Why is she laughing at your jokes? That's my role."
"You're rarely funny before coffee," her mother replied.
"That's slander."
I laughed out loud this time.
Liora squinted at me. "Oh no. She's on your side already."
Her mother set plates on the table. "Sit down before you're late for work."
Liora groaned. "See? She never changes."
"Neither do you."
We ate together.
Real food. Warm food. Food that tasted like care.
Liora talked between bites, complaining about schedules, trainers, Milan, life in general. Her mother listened patiently, occasionally interjecting with reminders or gentle scolding.
"And eat properly," she said at one point. "You look like you forgot how."
"I'm stressed," Liora protested.
"You're alive," her mother replied. "That's enough reason to eat."
I watched them quietly.
This—this was normal.
This was what mornings were supposed to be.
When breakfast ended, Liora stood abruptly. "Okay, enough family bonding. If we don't leave now, Milan will blacklist us."
Her mother waved her off. "Go. Both of you. I'll clean."
"We can help—" I started.
"No," she said firmly. "You have work. I have dishes. Everyone has a role."
She smiled at me again. "And Evelyn?"
"Yes?"
"Come back hungry."
Something in my chest softened completely.
Upstairs, as I dressed, the laughter from the kitchen drifted faintly upward.
And for the first time in my life, I realized—
This was what it felt like.
And that was how I experienced motherly love for the first time in my life.