Today Is My Happiest Day in the Year

Today is not Sunday, but it feels like the best day of the year anyway. 

The weather is calm in a way that feels rare, the sky clear without being sharp, and the air light enough that even ordinary moments feel gentle. 

I sat down this morning with my coffee, looked around the house, and felt an unexpected urge to write, because I want to tell you about a gift that is still sitting quietly in my heart.

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day in my country is on the second Sunday of May and it has its own rhythm.

Traditionally, it is a day meant to recognize mothers for the care they give, the patience they practice daily, and the love they offer without needing acknowledgement.

And while I always appreciate the gift from my husband, the one I truly wait for, the one that makes my chest tighten just a little, is the gift from my son.

Mother’s Day, Seen Through His Growing Hands

Every year, my son finds a way to surprise me, even when I think I know what to expect. 

One year, he made something at school that looked like a flower but felt more like a symbol, bright colors glued together with serious concentration. 

Another year, he drew our family, except I was drawn much larger than everyone else, and when I asked him why, he answered without hesitation that moms hold everything together.

Those gifts were simple, imperfect, and unforgettable.

But this year, something shifted. This year felt more intentional, more thoughtful, as if he had crossed a quiet line between making something.

The Morning I Pretended to Sleep

Last Sunday morning, I woke up slowly. I could hear movement in the house, soft footsteps, whispered voices, the careful kind of sound that tells you someone is trying very hard not to be noticed. 

I stayed still, eyes closed, letting the moment unfold the way it wanted to.

Then I felt the bed dip slightly as my son climbed up carefully, moving with the seriousness of someone on an important mission.

“Mama,” he whispered, close enough that I could feel his breath. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was his face, lit up with excitement and pride, the kind of expression children have when they are sure they have done something right. 

And then I noticed what he was holding.

The Red Tulips He Chose

He handed me a small but generous bunch of red tulips, the stems still cool to the touch, the blooms tight and smooth, some already beginning to open at the edges. 

I didn’t ask where they came from as I knew my husband had helped, but hat knowledge didn’t make the gift any less meaningful.

I looked at my son and asked gently, “Did you choose these?”

He nodded, very seriously, and said, “Yes. I picked the red ones because you always like them the most.”

Red tulips have always been my favorite flower. I love them because they don’t try too hard. Their petals are clean and simple, their shape upright and confident. 

When they open, they do it gradually, holding their form instead of spilling outward. Red tulips are often associated with deep, steady love, the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself loudly.

The Card That Still Sits on My Shelf

After the tulips, he handed me a card. Thick paper, folded slightly unevenly, clearly made with care rather than precision. 

On the front were three paper flowers, cut and glued by hand. One stem was crooked, and one flower leaned too far to the left. Inside, in carefully written letters, it said, “I LOVE MOM.”

I knew he had been taught those words at school. I could almost picture the classroom, the teacher helping them spell, reminding them to press the glue gently, encouraging them to take their time. 

But the moment he placed that card in my hands, none of that mattered. What mattered was that he brought it to me as if it were something valuable.

I traced the paper flowers with my fingers slowly, memorizing the texture, the way the glue had dried slightly raised in places.

Breakfast in Bed, the Way Only Home Can Do It

Then came breakfast in bed. Toast, fruit, juice, all carried carefully, with my husband hovering nearby, pretending to supervise while clearly enjoying the scene.

We sat together on the bed, the red tulips resting beside me, the card placed carefully on the nightstand. 

The room smelled like fresh bread and flowers. Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft enough to make everything feel forgiving.

My son kept watching my face, checking for my reaction, waiting to see if he had succeeded. I reassured him without words, just by holding him close and smiling longer than usual.

Why This Day Stayed With Me

Later, the day returned to its normal rhythm. Dishes were washed. The tulips were placed in a vase. The card was moved somewhere safe. But the feeling did not disappear.

Mother’s Day is not about grand gestures or perfect moments. It is about being noticed, about knowing that the quiet work you do every day has been seen and remembered, even in small ways.

Today, as I write this, the red tulips are opening wider, their petals slowly revealing deeper color inside. 

I know they won’t last forever, none of these moments do, but that is exactly why they matter.