Mariana Ivanov

Setting the table for dinner in my small apartment in Chișinău, Moldova, I felt a familiar mix of anticipation and warmth. The aroma of mamaliga and roasted vegetables filled the room, bringing back memories of meals with my late husband. It's been three years since he passed, and our children, now living abroad, couldn't fill the void he left behind. But two years ago, that void began to shrink when a refugee family from Odessa, Ukraine, arrived at my door, desperate and disheartened.

Their arrival brought life back into my home. The children's laughter echoes through the halls, their small hands helping me with chores. Their parents, too, have found their place here, devoting themselves to helping other refugees during the day. Recently, the father found a part-time job at an office, a step toward independence, but it brings a bittersweet possibility—their moving out.

Tonight, as we gather around the table, I watch their faces, illuminated by the soft glow of the chandelier. The children chatter about their day at school, their excitement filling the room. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding with the weight of my unspoken words. "I need to tell you something," I begin, my voice steady but emotional. "These past two years have been a blessing. You've brought life back into this home, and for that, I am eternally grateful. I know you want to find your own place, and I support that. But please, know that you have a home here for as long as you need."

Tears well up in their eyes, and the father reaches across the table to grasp my hand. "Thank you," he whispers. "We feel the same way. This is our home too, and we're not ready to leave just yet." As we continue our meal, I realize that, in opening my heart and home to this family, I have found a new kind of happiness—a reminder that even in the darkest times, love and connection can light the way.