It’s a story that proves sometimes love doesn’t come with roses and violins. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you in the kitchen, with the sound of clattering dishes and the scent of fried onions.
There was this lovely girl, a university student, young, bright and beautifully decent. She was out of session, the kind of break where campus girls either go home or drift into small adventures in the city. But this one, she was grounded, content to keep her circle small.
Now, she had this guy, her best friend. And I mean best friend. No secrets, no flirting, no funny business. Their friendship was pure, the kind that makes people whisper, “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?” They’d walk around the estate together, share jokes, buy street food, talk about everything and nothing. They were inseparable but innocent, just two souls comfortable in each other’s company.
This best friend of hers had another friend, slightly older, more established. You know the type: neat haircut, a decent one-bedroom apartment and a shiny saloon car parked right outside. He had a good job, the kind that allowed him to buy nice things: a television, movie system, clean curtains and cologne with a scent that lingers even when he’s gone.
So, the best friend would often visit this older guy’s house to hang out, especially when he wasn’t around. He had a spare key; trusted friend privileges. And whenever he went, he’d take the girl along. It became their little tradition. They’d buy groceries, cook in the man’s kitchen, watch movies, laugh till sunset, clean up the place and leave before the owner came home.
Now, this girl, let me tell you, she was raised right. She wasn’t one of those who’d eat and leave the dishes piled up. No. She’d clean the kitchen spotless, wash the dishes and even do the laundry if she found it lying around. Imagine, in another man’s house! She’d fold his clothes neatly, scrub the pans till they shone and even leave a meal waiting for him.
The house owner began to notice. He’d come home after work and find his house sparkling, his clothes folded and food warm on the table. He’d ask himself, “Who is this unseen angel invading my house with domestic magic?” But he never caught her, not once. Every time he came, they had already left.
Until one evening, fate decided it was time for introductions.
That day, they stayed a little longer than usual. The girl had even invited her friend from the neighbourhood to join them. The house smelled of good food and laughter, pots simmering and music playing softly in the background. Then, just as they were plating dinner, the door clicked open.
The owner had arrived early.
Voices floated from the sitting room. The girl froze mid-stir. Her best friend turned pale. They had finally been caught.
The man walked in, curious, and headed straight for the kitchen. And there she was, apron on, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, busy stirring a pot of stew like she owned the place.
He stopped, stared, smiled and said the words that would change both their lives forever:
“I’ve just met my wife.”
Everyone laughed, awkwardly at first, but his eyes didn’t waver. He meant it. And oh, he proved it.
He pursued her with intention, with patience, with sincerity. It wasn’t love at first sight, it was recognition. The kind that whispers, this is home.
Fast-forward almost two decades later, and that girl, that decent university student, still cooks in his kitchen. But now, it’s not that small one-bedroom apartment. No. It’s a grand mansion, the kind with echoing hallways, gleaming marble floors and a kitchen so large it could host a wedding.
And yet, every time she stirs a pot, wipes a counter or laughs while cooking, he remembers that first day, when fate entered his house through the kitchen door.
Until next time, my dear readers, remember, sometimes forever doesn’t knock. It walks in with a cooking spoon and never leaves.
