Earlier this evening, I was feeling pretty worn out from the work day and had just put some porridge to boil. Got too lazy to get up from the couch to check on it and I heard the boy pottering about in the kitchen. I asked that he watch over the porridge for me as I was afraid that it will boil over. He said that he was already doing it.
I continued to sit on the couch in my post-workday daze and after a while, realised that I really should get my butt off the couch to check on my porridge and to heat up last night’s leftover dinner.
When I walked into the kitchen, I saw that the boy was already scooping out the cooked porridge into a bowl. One for me and one for himself. On the stove was the frying pan with a sunny-side up cooking.
It occurred to me then that quietly, without me asking, the boy had taken upon himself to make dinner for me. He even cooked the egg yolk a little longer because (he said) ‘You don’t like the runny yolk so I cooked it a little longer. See if it’s ok?’.
It was the simplest of gestures but it touched me to the core. And it was the sweetest little dinner.