My husband came out of the bedroom and sat down at the table.
His face looked heavy.
Without saying a word, he took his probiotics, homemade yogurt, an apple, and the iced Americano I had brought for him.
He ate quietly.
Why does he look so serious?
I glanced at him and went into the bedroom to lie down for fifteen minutes.
Bang.
The front door slammed.
My body tightened.
Why did he slam the door like that?
He was probably outside, having a cigarette.
Did something happen yesterday?
His father had told him not to come after work.
Was something wrong?
The night before, he had opened the bedroom door, picked up his underwear, and walked away without even looking at me.
He had spent a long time in the bathroom.
And this morning, he was eating yogurt again.
Was he not feeling well?
He came back inside, still looking serious.
Then he came out after his shower.
He looked at me, broke into a bright smile, and said,
“I have lunch plans. I’ll be home for dinner.”
I laughed.
Maybe he just hadn’t fully woken up yet.
At the Golf Range
A few days later, I was practicing at the screen golf range.
I wasn’t trying to hit the ball farther.
I was simply practicing my rhythm.
A woman came into the bay next to mine and started swinging with all her strength.
After almost every shot, she muttered a small curse.
Without realizing it, I started swinging harder too.
My tempo became faster.
My shoulders tightened.
Then I remembered something my golf coach had once said.
“You’re not trying to hit it hard. You’re here to practice.”
I smiled.
I softened my grip and slowed down.
One breath.
One swing.
My rhythm returned.
Later that morning, my daughter said,
“I don’t think Dad expresses himself very well. I think he just keeps things inside.”
She might be right.
Cooking for My Family
Years ago, that kind of morning would have sent me straight into the kitchen.
I would have started making beef bone broth.
He seemed a little better after eating it, and I felt relieved too. That was why I made it.
For a long time, I thought I was simply taking care of my family.
Looking back, I think I was also trying to make everyone feel comfortable.
Cooking was the easiest way I knew.
It was what I did best.
A pot of beef bone broth.
A tray of braised short ribs.
Different side dishes every day.
Good food often softened the mood.
The house felt calmer.
And maybe, so did I.
Now I know the difference.
I can cook for my family.
They’re just being themselves at home.
Sometimes, the uneasiness isn’t theirs at all.
It’s mine, coming from how I see them.
Nothing needed fixing.
When I notice that familiar tightness, I don’t head straight for the kitchen. Instead of rushing to soothe everyone, I simply notice what my body is trying to tell me.
And then I just pause.
Sometimes, a few minutes is all it takes.
