What comes to mind when you hear the word “home”? Is it a place, a feeling, or the people who make you feel safe and loved? For me, I didn’t fully grasp its meaning until I left. I moved through different places, different zip codes, building a life of my own. Yet, no matter how far I went, I always found myself drawn back to one familiar place — my mom’s table, with a warm plate of arroz con pollo and the smell of home filling the air.
When we moved from Peru to the U.S. in the 90s, everything felt unfamiliar. New language, new culture, new routines. But one thing never changed: my mom waking up at 5 a.m. every morning to cook for me and my brothers, making sure we had a warm meal to come home to after school, even when she and my dad worked late. I was the kid who smelled like food at school — my lunchbox filled with homemade Peruvian dishes my classmates mocked at first… until they tasted them. Suddenly, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were being traded for my mom’s cooking.
Her food was more than nourishment; it was comfort in an unfamiliar world. It was her love, her sacrifice, her way of making sure we felt safe and connected, even when everything around us was uncertain. And somehow, even when we didn’t have much, she always found a way to feed not just us, but our friends who couldn’t resist her food.
Cooking for her was never a chore. It was an experience, an expression of love. She’d play music as she worked in the kitchen, singing and dancing to her favorite songs. I’d sneak up for a taste, as she poured her heart into every dish. Now, as a woman, I find myself doing the same — turning on music, tasting as I go, and finding joy in creating something that fills the room with warmth and connection.
That’s the thing about my mom — she doesn’t just make meals, she creates connections. And wherever she is, everything has its own rhythm, its own way of being done. Like the dishwasher, which she refuses to use because, in her words, “it doesn’t wash well.” Instead, it’s packed with pots and pans. It used to make me laugh, but now, I see it for what it is — a reminder that home isn’t about perfection. It’s about the little things — the smells, the traditions, the laughter, the love.
No matter how far I went, home was always waiting, wrapped in the scent of something simmering on the stove.
Now, as a real estate agent, I carry that sense of home with me. I see it in the way a house smells when I walk in — a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen or something baking in the oven. I notice it when a dining table is set, waiting for a family to gather. To me, a home isn’t about square footage or high-end finishes — it’s about the memories made there, the people who will fill it, and the meals shared.
My job isn’t just about helping people find houses; it’s about helping them find a place where they can create their own traditions, build a sense of belonging, and fill the space with love—just like my mom did for us.
Every Mother’s Day, I’m reminded that home has never been about size or location. It’s a feeling — one of warmth, love and connection. For me, that feeling has always been wherever my mom is. And I hope that wherever life takes you, you find that same feeling of home, too.
Her food was more than nourishment; it was comfort in an unfamiliar world. It was her love, her sacrifice, her way of making sure we felt safe and connected, even when everything around us was uncertain.