Home Cooking

The bowl sits empty on the table. The bandages, too. That’s four coppers you’ll never get back. A loaf of bread. Two days of oats. Lamp oil you’ve already stretched for a week.

You’ve learned to do this efficiently now. Still, your hand trembles as you bring cool, sharpened steel to press against your forearm-a point just below last week’s bandages. Every muscle in your body seems to protest this act-no, this crime against yourself.

For a few moments you remain still, vision focused on the blade in the dim light of sunset. She’ll be back soon, you remind yourself. Your eyes flick to the door. Locked, good. A child shouldn’t witness this.

You draw in a slow breath and hold it.

The blade bites.

Warmth spreads quickly. Your practiced hand presses the knife harder. The wound opens wider, bleeding, throbbing. Pain. You drop the knife.

With a swift motion you bring the bowl to catch the first drops, turning your arm to better catch the steady flow. “One, two, three…” you hear your own voice counting. Your own body feels so far away right now.

Your mind swims. Thoughts of your own youth, of brighter times. You see yourself picking out an azure-blue dress. The ballroom, ornate golden chandeliers, a grand fireplace, and oh such pleasant company.

“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…” You’re there again. The fire gently warms your skin. Fine fabrics caress you. Your teeth bite down into perfectly juicy flesh. “Enjoying yourself tonight, my lady?” His voice intrudes upon your dream, shattering it. 

Cold air bites your skin – not fire-warmth, but the draft through cracked walls. Your arm throbs.

Your own blood, warm and thick, flows like silk. Mesmerising. “Twenty-nine, thirty.” You hear yourself still counting. Clarity returns. You’re already holding the bandage. Bringing it swiftly to your wound you bind the cut. How much this time? Half a bowl? It will do.

You press hard against the bandage until the bleeding slows to nothing. The knife goes into the wash bucket, you’ll clean it later when your hands stop shaking. The bowl, both precious and damning, sits on the table.

Deep breath. Stand. The room tilts slightly but you manage to catch yourself on the table’s edge. How much longer can your body keep up with this? How much longer until-

No. Not yet. She still needs you.

The fire needs building. You move through familiar motions: kindling first, then the thicker dry branches Mira gathered earlier. Your hands work automatically, even as your vision swims.

From your dwindling stores you gather what you can. The barley, soaked since morning. Half an onion, the carrot that’s starting to soften, a small parsnip. The mushrooms you foraged yesterday. You saved the largest for tonight. A handful of the dried ones too, for richness you can’t otherwise afford.

Your knife – cleaned now – makes quick work of the vegetables. Half an onion first, into the pot with half a precious spoonful of fat. The sizzle fills the small room. Carrot, parsnip, following after. The mushrooms last, their dark juice bleeding into the oil.

The bowl.

You pour it in slowly, watching red ribbons move through the broth. It darkens, becoming rich and earthy. Just another ingredient, you tell yourself. Just medicine. She needs this. You know she does. The barley goes in next, then a pinch of salt and the thyme you dried last summer.

You stir, watching it all come together. Thin, yes, but hearty enough. She’ll eat well tonight.

The door rattles. Your heart jumps.

“Mom? I’m home!”

You wipe your hands on your apron, checking for blood. None, good. You force warmth and a smile into your voice. “Just finishing dinner, love. How was your day?”

The door swings open. Mira bounds in, already talking, already hungry. You ladle the stew into bowls with hands that shake only a little. She doesn’t notice. She never does.

You’ll tell her it’s mushroom and barley. And you won’t be lying.