For the past two years, my husband would wake up in the morning and make breakfast. He would prepare semolina porridge and eggs, or tom brown, or oatmeal. He went to work before me, so he would quickly eat his meal and leave mine on the table. While he was gone, I would take my time and eat before leaving the house. Semolina porridge became my favorite—something I didn’t even know existed before I met him.

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When he traveled for a month, that meant I had to wake up and prepare my own breakfast. I would go to the kitchen, pour the semolina flour into water, stir while it boiled, and soon the food would be ready. But the taste was different. It didn’t taste the way my husband made it. Something was missing. Was it too much sugar? Or the water didn’t boil at the right temperature?

I called him when I got it wrong the second time. “How do you make the semolina?” He casually narrated the process. I paid attention, but I still didn’t get the taste right. The next morning, while in the kitchen, I called him again. “Okay, let’s go. What do I do first?”

“Pour the water first and add the semolina.”
“Okay… done.”
“Stir until it becomes even.”
“Okay… done.”

On and on he went. I followed every step without missing a single detail. The food was ready, but it still didn’t taste like his. At this point, I had to admit that I wasn’t going to get it right. That evening, during a video call, he told me, “It’s not about the food. It’s about the hands that make the food.”

I Left Him Because He Didn’t Help In The Kitchen


I agreed. It was about him. His presence was what was missing in the food. I missed him so much that life wasn’t the same, including the taste of my favorite food. I missed watching him make it. I missed him yelling when he burned his fingers. I missed the man he was. When he finally returned, I knew I should do everything to keep him—to give my all to make him happy. I love him, yes, but there’s more to it than that. And that’s what I missed while he was away.

—Fafa

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