He sat at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost distant. She stood across from him, her voice trembling, breaking into shouts, words falling like hailstones. No, it wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion. It was worry. It was that familiar pain, the kind that builds for weeks before bursting out, merciless and raw.
She scolded him for lending money again to his mate—the one who never seemed to pay it back. *”You’re kind to everyone else, but at home, it’s just debts. The loan’s hanging over us, our daughter’s at uni on fees, your mum’s flat needs fixing up, and who else will do it?”* She didn’t wait for an answer. She mentioned the rug still waiting to go to the cleaners, the lamp left in its box for a week. All of it—like a steady drizzle, drop by drop. Still, not anger. Just frayed nerves. As usual.
And he kept eating his soup. Silently. Used to it. He knew she’d shout, then quiet down. It always went this way.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper, easier on his stomach. Homemade soup, almost medicinal. She’d taken the morning off for the dentist, managed to cook while she was at it. Everything normal. Everything circling back.
Then, something shifted. She stopped. Fell silent. Looked at him differently—like it was the first time in years. He’d aged. Those golden curls were gone, just a smooth, lamp-lit bald patch now. Wrinkles creeping down his neck, shoulders hunched, eyes dim. Sitting. Eating. Silent. Swallowing more than soup—swallowing life.
Time had marked him. All the worries, the sleepless nights, the unspoken aches. Life doesn’t spare anyone—it takes youth, lightness, laughter, leaves only weariness behind. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been her boy. The one who brought her daffodils, strummed his guitar by bonfires, spun her on pavements, kissed her temple, laughed like a lad. They’d watched films curled up together, walked through the park at dusk, fingers laced tight. And now? Grey, stooped, quiet. And her? Shouting. Like a stranger.
Then something twisted inside her. Deep behind her ribs. She didn’t see her husband—just her boy. The one she’d laughed with, waited for, left little love notes for.
She stepped closer. Wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressed her cheek to his back. No words.
He set down his spoon. Took her hands gently in his. Kissed them. That was all. It was enough.
Because these are the moments that keep us here. When the boy and the girl—even with silver in their hair—take each other’s hands again. And keep walking. Together. Through bills and chores, through grudges and silence.
Because love is here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these quiet glances. In sticking close.
If it’s here, you can go on. You can face whatever comes. Together. Holding tight so time’s wind doesn’t blow you apart—the same wind that takes everyone, sooner or later.
But until then… let there be soup. Let there be hands. Let there be love.
