21/09/2025
The emptiness in the fridge was a perfect match for the one in her chest. After Mark left, it felt like he’d taken the noise, the chaos, and all the good food with him. For weeks, Lena and her two kids had existed in the beige, crunchy silence of toast and boiled eggs. It was fuel, not food. It was what you ate when you couldn’t remember what hunger felt like.
The turning point came on a Tuesday. Her daughter, Chloe, was trying to open a jar of pasta sauce for dinner, her small wrists straining. “It’s okay,” Chloe said, her voice thin with effort. “I can do it, Mummy.”
Lena looked at her daughter’s determined face, at her son, Sam, listlessly pushing a toy car across the floor. She saw the subtle sharpness of their cheekbones, the tiredness that wasn’t from play. She was feeding them, but she wasn’t feeding them. She was keeping them alive, but she wasn’t making them strong.
A deep, primal switch flipped inside her. No.
“Put that down, sweetheart,” she said, her voice firmer than it had been in months. She took the jar, and with a purpose that surprised her, twisted it open. But she didn’t pour it over pasta. Instead, she placed it back in the cupboard.
“We’re going to the market,” she announced.
The Saturday market was a riot of colour and life they’d been avoiding. The vibrancy was an affront to their grey mood. But Lena walked straight into the heart of it. She let Sam choose a bunch of carrots, their green tops wild and earthy. She let Chloe pick out a basket of strawberries so red they looked like jewels.
“What are we making?” Chloe asked, her eyes wide.
“We’re making us strong,” Lena replied.
Back in the kitchen, the silence was replaced by a new music. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the knife on the chopping board as Lena diced onions and garlic. The sizzle as they hit the hot, glistening olive oil. It was a sound of intention.
She wasn’t just making a meal; she was building a fortress. She added rich, red lentils, watching them tumble into the pot like tiny, edible shields. She poured in stock and a can of crushed tomatoes, the colour a vibrant declaration of health. She stirred in cumin and paprika, spices that smelled of warmth and faraway places, of a world bigger than their hurt.
She grated deep orange sweet potato into the mixture, for strength. She tore up dark, leafy kale at the very end, for resilience. The kitchen steamed up with the smell of something hearty, something real.
They ate at the small table, the three of them. They didn’t watch TV. They looked at each other. They ate the thick, hearty soup with chunks of warm, whole wheat bread slathered in real butter.
Sam, usually a picky eater, had a orange ring of soup around his mouth. “This is good, Mum,” he mumbled through a full mouth.
Chloe was quiet for a moment, then said, “My tummy feels… warm.”
Lena looked at her children, colour returning to their cheeks, and felt the food warming her from the inside out. It was more than warmth. It was strength. It was the iron in the lentils, the vitamin C in the tomatoes, the love in the effort. She was literally forging her own strength, spoonful by spoonful, and handing it directly to them.
The next week, she baked oatmeal bars stuffed with nuts and seeds. She made smoothies that were a deep, mysterious green but tasted of bananas and mangoes. She boiled eggs for quick protein and kept a bowl of bright apples on the counter.
Eating became an act of defiance. A quiet rebellion against the fragility that had threatened to consume them. Every meal was a choice to build, to repair, to fortify.
One evening, Lena was pulling a tray of roasted chicken and vegetables from the oven. Chloe set the table without being asked. Sam was practicing his reading with the recipe book, sounding out the words “tur-mer-ic” and “broc-co-li.”
Lena served the food, the golden chicken, the crispy green broccoli, the roasted sweet potatoes caramelized at the edges. As they began to eat, Chloe looked up at her.
“You’re getting strong, Mummy,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Lena paused. She realized her jeans felt looser, but her arms felt firmer from lifting pots and grocery bags. The hollow feeling in her chest had been filled, not by someone else, but by her own two hands.
She smiled, a real, easy smile that reached her eyes. “We both are, my love,” she said. “We both are.”
She ate every last bite on her plate, tasting the crisp skin, the sweet potato, the iron-rich greens. She was tasting her own capability. She was eating to be strong for her children, and in doing so, she had finally learned how to be strong for herself.
