It had been over three years since my parents last visited us in Okahandja.
Life had been busy — school schedules, the chaos of work on the back wing, and sewing projects that usually took over the flat.
But for this visit, the sewing came to a halt. All my precious fabrics were folded and packed into boxes, stacked neatly in the garage. The flat bedroom was cleared, ready to welcome them like a hug that had been waiting for years.
From the moment they arrived, the house felt different — warmer, fuller, louder. We ate… and ate… and ate. Hearty breakfasts, big family lunches, sweet treats after dinner. Ten days later, I was a few kilos heavier, but my heart felt lighter than it had in a long time.
The kids were in heaven, soaking up every moment — reading stories with Grandpa, baking with Grandma, sneaking extra bedtime minutes just to talk.
We had late nights filled with laughter, early mornings filled with the smell of coffee. My favourite moments were the quiet ones — coffee in bed, the kids snuggled between me and my parents, talking about nothing and everything at once.
It wasn’t just a visit. It was a reminder of the kind of love that wraps around you like a well-worn quilt — the kind that feels like home, no matter how many years have passed.
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