After the Third Day

When my mother was away, my father did not begin cooking immediately.

For the first few days, he reheated the food she had prepared before leaving. This was sensible and required no heroism. The refrigerator contained a temporary solution, so there was no reason to create another one.

Then the prepared food ran out.

My father cooked.

After the meal, the kitchen became my responsibility.

That was our division of labor.

At the time, I saw mostly the joke: he did the part he preferred, and I received the dishes. Years later, the scene looks like a small picture of how households actually survive. Nobody writes a formal plan, yet tasks move quietly between people.

My mother’s work was still present even while she was away. For several days, we were eating something she had already thought about and prepared.

Then her part of the system ended.

My father took over.

Then he handed the remaining work to me.

Nothing dramatic happened. Nobody was helpless, and nobody deserved a medal. The house simply changed its routine for a few days and continued functioning.

I do not remember what my father cooked.

I remember what happened afterward.

He finished the meal.

Then he gave me the kitchen.