He was sitting at the kitchen table, slowly sipping his soup. His face was calm, almost detached. And there she was, standing opposite him, her voice trembling, breaking into shouts—words tumbling out like hail. No, it wasn’t anger. It was exhaustion. Anxiety. That kind of pain that builds up for weeks, then spills out, merciless and raw.
She was berating 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 holes in the budget! The loan’s hanging over us, our daughter’s on a paid course, Mum needs the roof fixed—who else is gonna do it, eh?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She brought up the rug that still hadn’t made it to the cleaners, the light fixture sitting in its box for a week. All of it, like drizzle—drop by drop. But still, not anger. Just frayed nerves. The usual.
And he drank his soup. In silence. Used to it. He knew how this went—she’d shout, then she’d stop. Same as always.
He’d come home for lunch—cheaper, easier on the stomach. Homemade soup, like medicine. She’d taken time off work, been at the dentist’s, squeezed in time to cook. Everything routine. Everything the same loop.
Then, something shifted. She went quiet. Stopped. Looked at him differently—like she was seeing him for the first time in years. He’d aged. The golden curls were gone, just a shiny bald spot under the kitchen light. Wrinkles on his neck, hunched shoulders, eyes dimmed. Sitting there. Eating. Silent. Swallowing more than just soup—swallowing life.
Time had marked him. Years of worry, sleepless nights, all the unspoken hurts. Life doesn’t spare anyone—it steals youth, lightness, laughter. Leaves behind weariness. And a bowl of soup.
Once, he’d been her boy. The one who brought her daffodils, strummed his guitar, sang by bonfires, spun her on the pavement, kissed her temple, laughed like a kid. They’d watched films curled up together, wandered through the park at dusk, fingers laced. And now? Grey. Stooped. Silent. And her? Shouting. Like strangers.
Then, something pricked deep in her chest. Suddenly, she didn’t see her husband—she saw her boy. The one she’d laughed with, waited for, left little heart notes for.
She walked over. Wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressed her cheek to his back. Said nothing.
He set down the spoon. Gently took her hands in his. Kissed them. That was all. Enough.
Because these are the moments that keep us here. When the boy and the girl—even with silver in their hair—hold hands again. And keep going. Together. Through bills and light fixtures, through grudges and silence.
Because love’s right here. In this kitchen. In this soup. In these looks. In quiet. In the habit of being close.
If it’s here—you can live. You can keep walking forward. Together. Holding on so time doesn’t blow you apart. That wind comes for everyone, sooner or later.
But until then… let there be soup. Let there be hands. Let there be love.
