I don’t know why, but for some reason, I always wanted to eat alone. I had siblings, but I always loved eating from my own plate, away from them. When I became an adult and was asked why, I tried to find a reason for it—a reason that didn’t exist but made sense. I told them, “I’m a slow eater. Food takes forever in my mouth before I swallow it because I want the sweetness to last before it’s gone.”

I told my wife the same thing when we were nothing more than a date to each other. When we got married, she thought I was going to change. “You’re no longer only a man,” she said. “You’re a husband too, and husbands do things together with their wives.”

I chose to cook with her, wash dishes with her, or go to the market with her. But when it came to eating, I always wanted to eat alone. One day, she asked me, “At least can I sit next to you?”

That was 1988.

She would sit next to me and watch me eat. Sometimes she had something to say; sometimes she had nothing to say. She would sit and watch me eat my food slowly while reflecting on my day or thinking about nothing at all.

When the kids came, she never stopped. The kids grew into adults. She chose my side and let them grow to become their own persons. They got married and left home, but my wife never left my side whenever she served my food. When I travelled and had to eat alone, I missed her. When phones became a thing and we both had them, I would call her, and she would ask what I was doing. I would respond, “I’m eating.”

On the phone, she would have something to say while I ate silently or hummed to let her know I was listening.

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When she died, I didn’t eat for three days. When I read her tribute, I said, “I don’t know how to eat alone because I’ve always done it with you next to me.” After she was buried, life became lonely because I had to not only eat alone but also go through it all alone. Three years later, whenever I’m eating, I chew slowly and listen intently. I hear her while I eat. It feels like she’s always with me at the table. We were married for thirty-five years.

— Adae

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