She lowered her gaze, staring at the table’s worn surface. It was still the same table she and Jonathan had bought together, right after their wedding.
For some reason, the phrase “everything changes, nothing stays the same” drifted into her mind.
But, she thought, that didn’t really describe her and Jonathan’s situation, did it?
After all, nothing had changed–at least not the people themselves.
Niamh waited quietly for a while. When boredom set in, she pulled out her phone and scrolled absentmindedly.
Jonathan had disappeared into the kitchen almost two hours ago.
When he finally reemerged, his expression thunderous, he carried out a pot of porridge and two dishes.
One was scrambled eggs with tomatoes; the other, sweet and sour pork.
Niamh took a tentative bite. The tomatoes were too raw in the eggs, and the pork was burnt so badly the sugar had turned bitter.
She sipped the porridge. The rice was still hard at the center–undercooked.
Jonathan’s face darkened even further, as if he’d smeared soot across his cheeks.
“I’m sorry…” he muttered, voice tight with frustration.
Niamh heard the anger in his apology, but it was clear he wasn’t mad at her. If anything, Jonathan was furious with himself.
Surely he wasn’t angry at the tomatoes, the eggs, the pork, or the rice.
He’d wanted to impress her with his cooking. Instead, he’d spent two hours and ended up with a disaster.
He couldn’t believe how much his skills had slipped.
There weren’t many ingredients left in the fridge to start with, and he’d managed to ruin every single one.
He used to scoff at the idea of cooking being hard.
He picked up new things quickly–cooking included. At least, that’s what he’d
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always thought.
But tonight, he’d felt the exhaustion and effort that went into even a simple meal.
For three years of marriage, Niamh woke early every day to buy the freshest groceries, always coming up with new recipes, always cooking fast and well.
How could anyone say that wasn’t a skill? That it wasn’t an art?
Jonathan took a deep breath.
Why had it taken him so long to understand something so obvious?
“Don’t eat this,” he said abruptly. “I’ll order takeout.”
He pulled out his phone, but Niamh replied without looking up, “No need. This is fine. I’m not picky.”
With that, she kept eating.
Jonathan’s food was so bad, even he didn’t want to touch it.
And yet, here was Niamh, eating it anyway–eating like it was the best meal in the world.
A strange warmth settled in Jonathan’s chest.
Niamh really wasn’t picky.
But he was. Always had been.
Even though Niamh’s cooking was nearly perfect, he’d managed to find fault with it a hundred times over their three years together.
Niamh noticed Jonathan sit down beside her, not touching his fork. She wondered if he just couldn’t face his own culinary disaster.
She sighed softly and asked, “Is there anything left in the kitchen?”
Jonathan paused, then answered honestly, “Just some noodles that are about to expire and a few packets of pickled vegetables.”
Niamh stood and went into the kitchen.
In almost no time, she came back with a steaming bowl of noodles.
“There wasn’t much to work with,” she said, setting the bowl in front of Jonathan. “Pickled noodles are all I could make.”
Maybe it was the steam rising from the bowl, but Niamh could’ve sworn Jonathan’s
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face looked suspiciously close to tears.
But that was impossible, wasn’t it?
She’d cooked him feasts before–four courses and a soup–and he’d never once looked this moved.
Jonathan cradled the bowl in both hands as if it were a priceless treasure.
This was the first meal Niamh had made for him since the divorce.
“What about you?” he asked quietly.
“There weren’t enough noodles–just enough for one bowl.”
At her words, Jonathan’s eyes grew even brighter.
He picked up his fork and began to eat.
