Oh, my dear mother… go ahead and tell her she’s not good enough,” said Auntie Ilenuţa to the wealthy woman in her elegant fur coat.

Auntie Elsie, the kindhearted village lady with her green kerchief tucked tight under her chin, stands in a modest corner of the bustling Saturday market in the town of Whitby. The market throbs with colour: rows of stalls, hurried sellers, shoppers pausing at each stand to compare, to sample, to decide. Elsies hands are rough from years of labour, and her warm eyes belong to the simple, honest folk who still linger in the square.

She offers a few wheels of creamy Cheshire, painstakingly churned from the milk of her ageing cows, and a small slice set aside for tasting so the buyer can try it before he trusts it, she says with a grin. Every passerby receives the same gentle invitation:

Take it to Mum, love, and tell her if its good.

Some linger, others rush on; the market never pauses for everyone, and not every eye sees the soul behind a humble product.

This morning, among the regular faces, a wellknown city woman appears: tall, impeccably dressed in a pricey fur coat, her large dark glasses hiding her gaze. She is the talk of the town wealthy, successful, with every comfort at her fingertips. Yet she lacks one thing: peace.

She drifts past the grand stalls of famous producers, sampling, sniffing, questioning, but each bite makes her wince.

Too salty
Too soft
This isnt what Im after

People step aside for her, her icy elegance cutting through the air, but beneath that confident façade lies an unseen fatigue, a sorrow that doesnt match her designer attire.

When she finally reaches Auntie Elsies tiny stall, the other vendors turn their heads, whispering, Watch that shell ignore a simple country seller! Elsie, however, sees no difference; she reads only the heart of the person before her.

She smiles at the city lady with the same soft kindness she offers everyone:

Take it to Mum, love, and tell her if its good.

The woman pauses, unsure why she feels something stir. Perhaps it is the warmth in Elsies voice, a comfort she hasnt felt in years.

Elsie breaks off a piece of cheese, handing it as if to a dear friend:

Its made with these old hands but with a young spirit, love. Have a taste and tell me.

The lady lifts the morsel to her mouth. A simple, clean flavour floods her senses, unlocking a longforgotten feeling. She closes her eyes.

In that instant she is back in a tiny clayfloored kitchen, a plain wooden table, where her grandmother, wearing a floral apron, hands her a fresh slice of cheese and says:

Take it to Mum and see if its good. Youre my voice.

A knot tightens in her throat. The cheese is the same the same texture, the same taste, the same memory. Tears well in her eyes, hidden behind her large spectacles. Her voice trembles as she whispers:

I I dont know what to say its its perfect.

Elsie places a gentle hand on her, the way only a grandmother knows how:

My dear, I need little. If you say its good, thats enough for me.

How how do you make it? the woman asks, voice thin.

With hard work, love, and a pinch of longing for good people like you, who still taste with their hearts.

She removes her glasses. In her eyes glisten tears and a light she has not felt in a long time.

Youve reminded me of my own grandmother, she says, voice breaking.

Elsie smiles broadly, the little dimples in her cheeks deepening.

Thats wonderful, love. It means shes not far away. As long as you remember her, she lives on inside you.

Ill take all the cheese, the city lady declares, determined. All of it. And I want to help you. What do you need?

Elsie shakes her head gently.

Im not poor, love. I have my hands. As long as I have my hands, I have cheese. If youve walked past all those fancy stalls and come to my little stand, it shows theres still room in this world for people with heart. Thats my wealth.

The woman inhales deeply, wipes her eyes, and, for the first time in ages, feels a simple warmth: the comfort of a memory.

Thank you, Auntie Elsie thank you for reminding me who I am.

Elsie gives her hand a soft squeeze.

Take it to Mum, love, and tell her if its good. Thats how the cheese is, thats how life is only those who taste with their souls truly feel it.

If this tale has stirred a memory for you, dont keep it to yourself. Write in the comments what it reminded you of: a person, a taste, a childhood moment.