I was five years old that evening, a mild autumn evening where the leaves sang sadly under the caresses of the wind. We gathered around the kitchen table, that sanctuary of warmth in our modest home. The walls, imbued with our laughter and our tears, seemed to be imbued with the scent of our dinner, prepared with so much love by my mother. It was a living painting, a scene painted in daily gestures and exchanged glances.

My father, a man of few words but infinite tenderness, cut the roast carefully, distributing the pieces like promises of continued happiness. His presence was the invisible but solid pillar of our family. At his side, my mother, hampered by the whims of her recalcitrant body, radiated through the smile in her eyes, mirrors of an unconditional love that did not need the perfection of gestures to express itself.