The Grief I Never Talk About Lives in My Kitchen

There’s a particular silence in my kitchen that never leaves. It’s not the absence of sound — the radio still hums softly in the background most mornings, and the kettle still whistles its shrill alarm when the water boils. It’s something deeper, more personal. A silence that tugs at the edges of my chest when I stand by the sink. A silence filled with memories that linger in the corners like grease stains — impossible to scrub out completely.

The grief I never talk about lives here. Not in the living room, where visitors gather and laughter can distract me. Not in the bedroom, where exhaustion usually silences every emotion by the end of the day. No, it’s in the kitchen — in the hum of the refrigerator at midnight and the way I avoid the cupboard above the stove.

This kitchen used to belong to my mother. At least, it felt that way. She didn’t live here, but her presence was woven into every dish I cooked, every spice jar I opened, every recipe card tucked behind the salt container. She was a woman who cooked with precision and love, who knew how to fold grief into a pie crust and knead forgiveness into a loaf of bread.

Growing up, the kitchen was her domain. I remember her humming to herself as she chopped vegetables, a tune I never learned but still recognize in my bones. I remember the way she used to say, “You can taste love in food — but also sadness, if you’re not careful.” She taught me that food could be a balm or a burden, depending on what you carried with you.

The last meal I ever ate with her was chicken stew. She had made it when she was already too weak to really stand for long, but she insisted — insisted on chopping, on stirring, on tasting. She said, “This might be the last one, so it has to be right.” I smiled. I joked. I didn’t believe her. That’s what denial looks like — nodding and laughing when you should be holding someone’s hand and telling them not to go.

After she passed, I avoided cooking for months. I told myself I was too tired, too busy, too something — but really, I couldn’t stand the silence of the kitchen without her. Every time I opened the fridge, I thought about how she used to label leftovers with the date. Every time I cut onions, I remembered her trick: wet the blade and breathe through your mouth. I didn’t do it. I wanted the sting. I wanted the pain.

Years have passed, but she’s still here. In the kitchen drawer with the mismatched cutlery — she kept that crooked fork because it was “charming.” In the spice rack, where the ground cumin she gave me is now just a faint dusty smell. In the handwritten recipes she left behind — notes in the margins, substitutions in her looping handwriting. “Use yogurt instead of cream — lighter, tangier.”

Grief doesn’t always come with tears. Sometimes it’s just the sudden urge to bake a cake at 10 p.m. because that’s what she did when she missed home. Sometimes it’s standing in front of the pantry for fifteen minutes without moving because you forgot what you were looking for. Sometimes it’s just salt — the way it lingers, necessary and stinging all at once.

I host dinners now. I cook for friends. I make that same chicken stew. No one knows why I take such care with it — why I let it simmer just a bit longer, why I insist on the squeeze of lemon at the end. They say it tastes like comfort. I don’t tell them it’s the recipe she used. I don’t say her name. I just smile and serve.

Because this grief? It’s not the dramatic kind. It’s the kind that slips into the room quietly, like steam from a boiling pot. It curls around your neck and settles there, familiar. Manageable. Some days I forget it’s even with me. Other days, I stand over the sink, hands in soapy water, and it rises — uninvited but not unwelcome.

I never talk about it. Not really. Not out loud. But I think maybe I don’t have to.

Because every time I cook, every time I feed someone, every time the kitchen fills with smells that once filled hers — I am speaking. I am remembering. I am grieving.

And somehow, in this quiet room of boiling water and chipped mugs, she is still here.

And so is the grief.