Every two weeks, on Friday evening, the same small ritual.

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Bags in the hallway, phone chargers are quickly searched for, one last bit of chaos in the bathroom and then the doorbell rings.

Their dad is standing at the door.

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A quick goodbye, a “Bye mom,” one last hug and then they rush down the stairs with their bags.
I wave after them, hear the car start and then it feels as if the apartment holds its breath for a moment.

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I pour myself a glass of wine, light a candle and sink onto the sofa.

For the first time in days, no one is talking to me, no one needs anything, no one wants anything.
Just me and this unfamiliar feeling of time.

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My thoughts jump from one thing to another.
I think about everything I could do, finally tidy up, write, take a bath or maybe just do nothing.

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But instead of action, a quiet slowness spreads.
I enjoy it, and yet somewhere inside it feels hollow, like a room with too much space.

I walk a few steps through the apartment, straighten a cushion here, fold a blanket there.
Everything stays exactly where I put it.

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And that is what feels strange.

Usually someone is always passing by, leaving traces, an open drawer, a crumpled sweater, laughter coming from a room.

Now everything is tidy. Perfect. And a little lifeless.

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On Saturday I wake up early, even though I could sleep in.
I drink my coffee, walk through the living room in my pajamas and let music play softly, so it does not break the magic of the morning.

For a moment, it is beautiful to simply be.

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But then I realize how much I miss my two little monsters.
The eye rolling when I ask if they have eaten.

The constant back and forth about who is supposed to tidy up.
Their laughter when they show each other videos and I stand there, not really getting the joke but laughing anyway because they are laughing.

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I walk past their bedroom doors and pause for a moment.
The chaos of their world is waiting there, as if frozen.

Usually I would sigh deeply, maybe complain a little.

This time I just smile and think, this is exactly right. This is us.

Sometimes in the evening I catch myself taking out two or three plates before I remember that today I am eating alone.

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Or I open the kitchen door out of habit and almost call out, does anyone want to watch something with me?

And then I stop.

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Because I realize that in these small moments I feel them the most.

When the apartment door finally opens again on Sunday evening, I can tell from their steps that they are back.

A quick “Hello,” shoes in the hallway, bags drop, doors close.

I know they will retreat to their rooms first, the weekend between two homes still sitting in them.

But just knowing they are back fills me with a warmth I cannot describe.

There are voices. Music. Soft laughter.

And inside me spreads a feeling I only know when everything is back where it belongs.

 

My home. My girls. My two little monsters. 💛

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Sometimes we have to sit with the silence to truly feel how much we love the life that is missing from it.