« Where is the food? »
I stood there with my hand still on the refrigerator handle in our kitchen, staring at the empty glass shelves. Twelve storage containers. All gone. The lentil stew the kids like. The meatballs with mashed potatoes. The vegetable lasagna I’d spent almost three hours in the kitchen making on Sunday. Even the two portions of rice pudding I’d made for Wednesday evening, when I’d come home tired after my late shift.
Nothing.
Thomas sat on the sofa in the living room, his feet on the coffee table, his eyes glued to his mobile phone.
“At my mother’s,” he said, without looking up.
At first I thought I had misunderstood him. « Excuse me? »
« She had nothing left. She was feeling dizzy. So I brought her the things. She was absolutely delighted. »
I leaned against the kitchen counter because my legs suddenly went weak. « You gave her all our food for the week? »
Now he looked at me, already annoyed, as if I were the one making a problem out of nothing. « Our food? Sabine, it’s food. My mother needed help. »
« There were twelve portions. For us. For the children. For my late shifts. »
He shrugged. « Then you’ll just cook again. You’ll be home tomorrow morning anyway. »
This sentence struck a chord with me, cleanly and deeply. Not loudly at first. More like a crack in a cup, invisible for a long time until suddenly the coffee leaks through.
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