I walked from the bedroom to the kitchen. My steps were quiet on the cold tiles and I could hear the soft tap of my shoes. Sunlight spilled through the window and made little squares on the table. Jessica stood by the kitchen table, already dressed. Her hair was pulled back and she finished the last touches to breakfast with her usual calm. She was busy with the last touches to breakfast and she set the table exactly how I liked it. There were boiled eggs in a bowl, fried eggs on a plate, and slices of bread stacked neatly beside a little jar of honey. The teapot steamed gently near the edge.
The kitchen smelled of fried eggs and fresh bread. The warmth of the food and the light mixed in the air. I paused for a second by the door, just watching Jessica as she wiped her hands on her apron. She checked the eggs again and nudged the spoons to make sure they were straight. These small habits made our mornings feel real, even when everything else felt uncertain.
I leaned in and kissed Jessica on the cheek. Her skin felt warm and her perfume was light, a scent I always knew. She smiled without turning, just a small twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“Morning, Percy.”
“Morning,” I said. My voice came out quiet, the one you use when you want the peace to last a bit longer.
I pulled out my chair and sat down. I noticed the pattern on the tablecloth, the shine of the silverware, and the pepper sprinkled on the eggs. A small jar of salt sat beside my plate. There was a tiny chip on the rim of the bowl but I never mentioned it. For a moment, I just sat there, letting it all settle in. The sound of Jessica’s slippers and the steady tick of the clock filled the quiet.
I closed my eyes and bowed my head for a quick prayer. I thanked God for the food, for Jessica and for another morning that felt almost peaceful. Thinking about these small blessings, I also asked God for peace, even if I did not say it out loud.
Then I started eating. Jessica called out, “Children! Breakfast!” Her voice was clear and sharp enough to break the stillness. I heard a door bang in the hallway, then a rush of feet across the floor. That was when the day really started. I lifted a forkful of egg and watched the yolk crumble on my plate, trying to keep my calm for one more moment.
The children burst into the kitchen. Tadiwa came in first, making a face at his sister Chido. Chido glared at him and grabbed for the bread. Her little hands moved fast. They started fighting over the biggest slice, voices rising and falling. Jessica just sighed and told them to behave. The noise bounced off the walls and made the kitchen feel smaller than before.
Tadiwa said something and Chido rolled her eyes, then fired back with her own remark. Sometimes their jokes felt more like insults but that was just how they were. The noise pressed in on me, filling the kitchen until it was almost too much. I found myself wishing for quiet, just for a few seconds of silence.
That was when my mind drifted. I remembered my own childhood. I used to watch the adults sigh and complain about needing peace and quiet, as if peace was something you could lose somewhere in the house. My father grumbled after work and would sit by the radio with his eyes half closed, saying all he wanted was five minutes of peace. My mother would send us outside to play and rub her temples because her patience was gone. I always wondered what they meant. Adults could do what they liked. They bought bread, went out, sent us to bed early if they wanted. How could someone with all that freedom say they had no peace?
Now here I was, grown, with a wife and two kids, and I found myself just as confused but now from the other side. I looked at my own children and wondered why they wanted peace too. We fed them, clothed them, sent them to school, and let them play after homework. Still they fought and complained. Sometimes they even said, “I just want some peace.” It never made sense to me.
Sometimes Jessica and I talked at night, shaking our heads at the things the kids worried about. I remembered what it was like to be their age, not understanding why adults looked tired or why they complained about noise. I did not know why they seemed to be searching for something they could never find. Maybe peace always feels like it belongs to someone else. It always seems just out of reach, no matter how old you are.
“Dad! Dad!” Tadiwa’s voice pulled me back. I blinked and saw my fork still in the air. I was not sure how long I had drifted off.
“Dad, look what I can do,” he said.
He scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue, making a silly expression that anyone could do. Even Chido just rolled her eyes and kept on eating.
Jessica looked over with a crooked smile. “Percy, you really are becoming an old man. Always lost in your own world.”
I smiled, shrugged and put down my fork. The clock on the wall showed it was already 7:00. The day was moving on whether I was ready or not.
“Time to go,” I said.
We stood up together, our chairs scraping softly on the floor. Jessica picked up her bag and the kids scrambled for their lunchboxes. I headed out to the garage already thinking about the long day ahead. The children’s voices followed me down the hallway. The echoes of a noisy morning stayed in the air, and I realised that, in its own way, that noise felt like home.
