**One Frying Pan for Two**
Sometimes people stop arguing. And it’s not about making up anymore. It’s about the end. Edward and Emily had been together twenty years. Not an eternity, but not just a fling either. First came love, then children, then endless responsibilities. And then—weariness. With themselves, with each other.
At first, they still tried. They fought, made up, slammed doors, attempted to understand, forgive, return. But then came silence. Thick, impenetrable. They stopped sharing a bed. Moved to separate rooms. Not quite enemies, but no longer family. Just two people who happened to share a flat. The worst part? They began eating separately. His food. Hers. His shelves. Hers. His life. Hers. That was the end. The kind no one announces.
No one mentioned divorce. What was the point? It was already obvious. Edward met a woman at a countryside retreat. He started going alone, without Emily. The woman, Margaret, was kind, calm, patient. She wrote him letters, asked how he was, shared recipes. Emily hadn’t met anyone. Her loneliness was silent and tight, like a knot. But she never complained. She just carried on. As if waiting for it to pass.
That morning was ordinary. The kitchen bathed in yellow light, the smell of cheap butter in the air. Emily stood by the stove. On it—a tiny frying pan. A single egg. Not an omelette. Not breakfast for two. Just an egg. Small, like the pan itself. Small, like Emily. Her dressing gown was worn, her hair an awkward mess from an old perm. She gripped the spatula, not even looking at the pan. Just standing there.
Edward walked in. Silent. Filled the kettle, meaning to make tea. Everything inside him was already decided. He would leave. Soon. Just needed to pack. But then she turned. Looked at him with such helpless guilt that he nearly stumbled.
*”Want the egg?”* she asked softly, holding out that tiny pan.
It hit him like a wall. Everything flooded back. Their first flat. One mattress. One mug. One fork between them. And the same girl in a dressing gown—only then, she’d been laughing, bold, with a fringe like a pony’s. She’d winked and said, *”Even our egg is shared.”*
He set the pan down. Pulled her close. Held her as he had the first time. And then he spoke—clumsy, stupid words. That he’d been a fool. That he’d lost his way. That he’d forgotten she was his. That all the things that had seemed grey were the ones that mattered. He might have cried. She wouldn’t have seen—she was so small, and he so tall.
On the stove, the egg still sat. Its yolk like a golden button. A sign. A lifeline.
He stayed. They began eating together again. Sat in silence in the evenings. Then, slowly, carefully, they talked. And one day—laughed.
Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it lives in the quiet. In a single frying pan. In a question: *”Want the egg?”* Because if they’re offering—you’re still needed.
Never forget that. Not for a second.
