The Smell of Home by Olha Hrybivska

The taxi hummed down the narrow road

that led to his childhood home, where the willows arched like old friends over the gravel driveway. 

Daniel leaned his head against the window, fatigued to the bones. After two years abroad - client meetings, hotel breakfasts, constant flights - he was finally home. He could already see the edges of the red-roofed house he had left behind, now framed by the early evening sun.

His mother opened the door before he even knocked. Her arms were thinner than he remembered, back slightly stooped. Despite new wrinkles, her smile was the same as always - soft and full of warmth, something that cut through time.

“Oh, Danny,” she said, wrapping him in a hug that smelled faintly of rose water and flour, “you look tired.”

“I am tired,” he said, resting his forehead against hers for a second, “but I’m happy to finally be at home.”

Inside, everything was just as he remembered, only quieter. The ticking clock in the hallway, the faded family photos on the wall. His mother moved a bit slower now, padding in her slippers to the kitchen.

“I baked something for you,” she called over her shoulder lovingly.

Before she even opened the oven door, the smell hit him - sweet, deep, warm. It was thick with sugar but not cloying, covered with the syrupy tang of dark cherries just starting to bubble, their juice turning sticky at the edges of the crust. 

There was something almond-like underneath, perhaps from the extract she always added with a careful hand, something only she could get right. The scent curled through the house, golden and red, wrapping around Daniel like a cosy blanket.

And then it was no longer the present.

He was ten, barefoot on the cool floor of their kitchen. It was summer, and the fan in the corner was barely able to cut the heat. 

His mum, younger and vibrant, with her sleeves rolled up, was pulling the same cherry cake from the oven. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, a smudge of flour on her cheek. She was humming while she worked. Some old tune he never learned the name of.

“Not yet,” she said, catching his fingers just before they reached for a corner of crust. “It’s too hot. You will burn your tongue.”

“Muuum, but it smells so good,” he whined, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands tucked between his knees to stop himself from grabbing the pie anyway.

She laughed, the sound easy and light. “Smell all you want. That part is free.”

The smell filled the house then too - so rich it seemed to soak into the wallpaper, into his skin. It was the smell of home, of school-free days, of running through the tall grass in the backyard. 

They picked the cherries together in their garden the day before. His still red fingertips and sunburnt shoulders reminded him of that. He smiled at the memory of how proud she had looked when he filled his basket all on his own.

“I’ll save the corner piece for you,” she said, winking. “I know you like the crispiest.”

He remembered grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

Then - ding - the present snapped back into focus, the oven timer ringing like a bell. Daniel blinked, the light around him sharper now. His mother, older, moved carefully with the baking tray, placing the golden-brown cake on the counter. A little steam curled up from it, carrying the same scent from decades ago.

“Still your favourite?” she asked, eyes twinkling.

Daniel looked at her, something thick in his throat. “Always.”

He reached for a knife to cut a slice but paused. Instead, he leaned down, just for a second, and breathed it in deeply - cherries, almonds and sugar, and something he couldn’t quite name, something only a mother’s kitchen could create.

And for that moment, fatigue, business meetings and tiring years that had passed all fell away. There was only him with his smiling mother and the smell of cherry cake which would always remind him of their home.