For 20 years, my mother followed the same routine.

At exactly 4 PM, she would sit by the window, looking at the road outside.

Not reading. Not scrolling. Just… waiting.

When I was younger, I thought it was a habit.

Later, I realized it was something else.

My brother used to come home at that time.

He left one day for work and never came back.

No accident. No closure. Just silence.

At first, people came to help. Neighbors, relatives, even strangers.

They said the same things:

“Be strong.”

“Accept reality.”

“Time will heal.”

Time didn’t heal anything.

It only made the house quieter.

But every single day, at 4 PM, she showed up at that window.

Not because she believed he would return.

But because she couldn’t accept that he wouldn’t.

Years passed.

Festivals came and went. Birthdays stopped being celebrated.

But that one routine never broke.

I used to feel angry.

Why stay stuck?

Why not move forward like everyone else?

Then one evening, I sat next to her.

We didn’t talk for a while.

Then she said something I’ll never forget:

“I’m not waiting for him to come back.

I’m waiting for the part of me that left with him.”

That’s when I understood.

It wasn’t about hope.

It was about connection.

Some losses don’t end.

They just become part of your daily life.

Today, the chair by the window is still there.

And at 4 PM, she still sits.

Not waiting for a miracle.

Just holding on to love in the only way she knows.