When I think about my childhood, I do not remember the biggest celebrations or the most expensive gifts. I remember the sound of the front door opening in the evening. That little sound meant everything. As a child, I would often wait for my parents to come home after work. I did not understand how tiring their day must have been or how much work went into keeping a family going. I only knew one thing: I wanted to see them.

The evening would slowly pass. I would look towards the door every time I heard footsteps outside or a vehicle stop nearby, hoping it was them. Sometimes I would ask, “When will they come?” even though I knew they would eventually return. Waiting felt long when you were a child. And then, finally, the door would open.

There they were. Tired from the day's work, perhaps carrying their bags, perhaps already thinking about tomorrow's responsibilities. But to me, none of that mattered. Their arrival meant that the day was finally complete. I would run towards them, tell them everything that had happened during my day, ask about theirs, and simply enjoy having them around. Looking back, I realise I never needed anything extraordinary. I just wanted their presence.

And then came dinner. There was something incredibly comforting about sitting together at the same table. Sometimes we talked about our day. Sometimes we laughed about something silly. Sometimes there was an argument over something completely insignificant. Sometimes we barely spoke at all. But we were together. I did not know then that these ordinary dinners would become some of the memories I would treasure most.

As children, we rarely understand the value of ordinary moments. We assume our parents will always come home at the same time, sit at the same place, ask us the same questions and be there for dinner. We think these moments are permanent because childhood has not yet taught us about how quickly life changes. Growing up has made me realise that love often looks incredibly ordinary. It looks like someone coming home tired and still asking, “Did you eat?” It looks like a parent saving the best piece of food for their child. It looks like waiting at the door just to hear a familiar voice. It looks like sitting around a dinner table without realising that you are creating memories.

Today, when I think about those evenings, I miss their simplicity. I miss waiting without knowing I was waiting for something precious. I miss the comfort of knowing that, at the end of the day, everyone would eventually be under the same roof. Maybe that is why this is my sweetest childhood memory. Not because anything extraordinary happened. But because, back then, I had something I now understand was extraordinary:

the simple joy of having my parents come home.