Separate Kitchens and One Little Egg
Sometimes people stop arguing. And it’s not about peace anymore. It’s about emptiness. That’s how it was for William and Emily. First came the quarrels—shouting, slamming doors, hurt feelings, passionate reconciliations. Then—silence. There comes a point when even irritation fades. Just—nothing. No pain, no warmth. Only strangers, living under the same roof.
They had spent twenty years together. So much had happened—the rushed wedding, the rented flats, the sleepless nights with the children, the long evenings when it seemed love would conquer all. And then—it didn’t. Everything grew quiet. They retreated to separate rooms, as if to opposite shores. They began eating apart. First at different times. Then—different meals. Eventually, each had their own shelf in the fridge. Like in a boarding house.
They never spoke of divorce. What was the point? What was there to say when every evening was just waiting for silence? William started taking trips to the seaside—alone. There, he met a woman, Margaret, gentle and understanding. She knew how to listen and never asked too much. He wrote her letters. Real ones, on paper. In them, he poured out words he could no longer say at home.
As for Emily… she just lived. Wore her old dressing gown, woke to the alarm, drank her morning tea. Said nothing. Even with her friends, she barely spoke—what was there to say when they all had lives that were “just fine”?
Then, one ordinary morning. The kitchen smelled of toast and the faint trace of old cooking oil. Emily stood by the stove. Small, fragile, as if she’d grown even smaller over the years. Before her—a tiny frying pan. In it—one single egg. Not an omelette, not a shared breakfast, not something for the family. One egg. Just for her. That was all.
William walked in, pouring his tea. He was preparing—not just for work, but for… a new life. He’d made up his mind, had words ready. His suitcase was nearly packed.
But she turned. No reproach. No tears. Just looked up at him with a faint smile:
“Fancy a bite?”—and held out that little pan.
The gesture cut deeper than any shout. As if time had spun backward. Back to the past—their student digs, one pan, one blanket, a single shared mug. And this same girl, laughing, in a cotton dressing gown, barefoot, with a fringe. Not the tired woman now, but the merry pony he’d once called her.
He didn’t take the pan. He took her. Held her. Tight. Silent. Then he began to speak. Haltingly, stumbling. How his mind had clouded. How everything had turned grey, how he hadn’t even noticed losing what mattered most. And maybe he cried. He was taller, so she wouldn’t have seen. She just trembled in his arms, murmuring something about “me too.”
On the stove, the egg burned. The yolk was golden, so warm. A reminder—not everything was lost. Love isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout. It hides in the little things. In one pan. In a soft glance. In a simple: “Fancy a bite?”
And after that, they began eating together again. Talking. Not about everything at once. Not without pain. But together.
…Sometimes it feels like everything died long ago. But then—one little egg changes it all. And you remember love didn’t leave. It just grew quieter. Smaller. Almost invisible. But still alive.
