As Michael arrived home, flour, salt, olive oil, yeast and sugar lay scattered across the kitchen table. His mother was making his favourite.
“What kind of a pizza is this?” he asked with a frown. “Can’t we buy one?”
Michael knew he had hurt his mother’s feelings. Money had always been a problem after they had lost his father. Michael looked at the pizza’s meagre toppings.
His face broadened into a smile, “Oh, mum. This is better than any store pizza.”
He hugged and kissed her. A tear rolled down her cheek. She knew he said that for her.
The pizza had one special ingredient, a mother’s love.
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