He Cooked for Her

I have been married to Hector Tillman for five years. In all those years, he never once stepped into the kitchen. He might not even know where the gas valve is. That day, when I came home from work and opened the door, the scent of cooked food greeted me. I stood frozen in the hallway, thinking I had walked into the wrong apartment. After changing into my shoes, I entered the living room and saw Hector Tillman standing awkwardly at the kitchen doorway, wearing my pink apron. The cuffs of his shirt were rolled up, a faint smear of oil on his forearm. "You're back." His voice sounded unnatural, tinged with a hint of unease. I approached and saw two dishes and a soup laid out on the dining table. The tomato scrambled eggs were burnt at the edges, the greens had turned yellow, and undissolved grains of salt floated in the soup. Yet somehow, it felt like the most delicious meal I had ever tasted. "What made you decide to cook?" I picked up my chopsticks and took a bite of the tomato scrambled eggs. They were a little salty and slightly bitter, but I smiled, my eyes curving with warmth. Hector Tillman sat across from me, his gaze fixed intently on me, as if awaiting my judgment. "I read online that eating delivery all the time isn't good for you." He paused, then added, "I just wanted to learn, to cook for you." A warmth blossomed in my heart as I reached out and took his hand. His hands, rougher than mine from years of holding pens and negotiating business. "It's delicious, even more fragrant than takeout." I speak with all my heart. Hector Tillman's tightly pressed lips finally softened, and he picked up his chopsticks. After that, Hector seemed to have fallen in love with cooking. Every day after work, I could always see his busy figure in the kitchen. He would follow the tutorials on his phone step by step; when he failed, he'd furrow his brows, pour it out, and start over. Sometimes, I would lean against the kitchen doorway and watch him. Sunlight streamed through the window onto him, casting a quiet serenity, as if time had gently stilled. I thought our marriage had finally weathered the dull spell and was on the verge of rekindling. At first, Hector Tillman came home on time every day to cook dinner. Even if something came up at the company, he would send me a message in advance, saying he would try to come back earlier. His cooking skills improved rapidly. From disastrous meals at the beginning to later preparing a table full of exquisite home-cooked dishes. My favorite was the Lotus Seed and Lily Porridge he made. It was my mother's secret recipe: first, removing the cores from the lotus seeds and soaking them for four hours; then soaking the dried lilies in warm water; and when the porridge thickened, adding a touch of rock sugar to enhance the flavor. I only mentioned it to Hector Tillman once. Unexpectedly, he remembered and made it taste almost exactly like my mother's. I told him more than once that there was no need to work so hard. He would always ruffle my hair and say he wanted me to eat better. But that tenderness did not last long. About a month later, Hector Tillman began coming home late. At first, he said it was because of overtime at the Company; later, he said he had to accompany clients. He no longer cooked for me every day; sometimes he came home too late, leaving only a note saying, "I've eaten out," before going straight to the study. I felt a little disappointed, but didn't think much of it. Hector was in the building materials business, and the end of the year was always busy. I comforted myself, thinking that once this period was over, everything would return to the way it used to be.