Every evening at 4 p.m., Mrs. Reyes made two cups of tea.
One for herself.
And one for her husband, who had passed away five years earlier.
She set his cup on the table anyway.
It was their time.
Her daughter, Liza, lived an hour away.
They talked almost every week, but Liza was always rushing—work, kids, appointments, deadlines.
“I’ll visit soon, Mama,” she would say. “Next weekend, promise.”
One afternoon, Mrs. Reyes tried to call.
She looked at her phone for a long time, then put it down.
“I don’t want to bother her,” she whispered.
That night, Liza had a dream.
Her mother was sitting in the same chair by the window, smiling softly.
On the table were two cups of tea.
Liza woke up with tears in her eyes.
The next morning, she got in the car.
No message. No warning. She just went.
Her mother opened the door and said, surprised,
“What are you doing here?”
Liza hugged her tightly and whispered,
“I almost waited until it was too late.”
Don’t wait for the perfect time. The people we love are never as young or as here tomorrow as they are today.