Why We Only Have One Spoon

We only have one spoon.

It’s not broken or rusty. In fact, it’s shiny. Heavy in your hand. Mama says it’s “real silver,” though I don’t know what that means. It doesn’t sparkle like the rings she used to wear when we had more.

I’m nine years old, and I don’t remember when we had more spoons. Mama does, but she doesn’t talk about “before” much. She just says, “Now is enough.”

Every night, we take turns using that spoon. First, Mama stirs the soup. Then she gives it to Ayaan, my little brother, who’s only five. He eats slow, dragging every bit of soup up like it’s treasure. Then it’s my turn. By the time I’m done, the spoon is warm from all of us.

Baba used to go last. He said it was the man’s job to wait. But since he left, the spoon’s last trip is always Mama’s.

Sometimes I ask why we don’t buy more. Spoons aren’t expensive. I saw them at the store — five for 150 rupees. Mama always says, “One is enough if you share it right.”

But I think it’s more than money.

I remember the night it happened. We were living in a better house then — one with cupboards full of utensils. Metal ones, plastic ones, even ones with cartoon characters. I had a blue one with a dinosaur on the handle. Ayaan had a yellow one with a bear.

That night, there was a big crash. Mama had screamed. Baba was shouting. Plates shattered. I crept down from the bunk bed and peeked into the kitchen.

He had thrown the drawer.

Spoons, forks, knives — all over the floor. Some bent. Some broken. Some lost under the fridge forever.

In the morning, Baba was gone. Mama cleaned everything quietly. She kept one spoon. Just one.

It wasn’t my dinosaur one. It wasn’t Ayaan’s bear spoon. It was the silver one. The only one that didn’t get scratched or bent.

That was two years ago.

Now, we live in a small flat where the kitchen and living room are the same thing. We eat sitting on cushions. Mama says it’s more comfortable than a table. Ayaan always makes rocket noises as he eats, and I pretend I don’t like it, but I do.

Some nights, when it’s too quiet, I open the drawer and look at the silver spoon. It lies there like something important. Like a secret we all know but never say out loud.

When guests come, we use plastic spoons. Mama saves them in a plastic bag. But the silver spoon? That’s only for us.

Last week, my teacher asked everyone to bring something important from home for “show and tell.” Other kids brought medals, photo frames, one even brought a Bluetooth speaker.

I brought the spoon.

Some kids laughed. One girl said, “What is this? You poor or something?”

I didn’t answer. But when I looked at the spoon in my hand, I saw Mama’s strength. Ayaan’s smile. Baba’s storm. And how, even after all that, it still shined.

When it was my turn to speak, I just said, “This spoon has fed my family for two years.”

The class was quiet.

My teacher nodded slowly and said, “That’s more valuable than anything else here.”

That night, I told Mama. She looked at me for a long time, then hugged me tight. “One spoon is enough, isn’t it?” she whispered.

And for the first time, I really understood what she meant.

A few days later, I saw Ayaan sitting on the floor with his teddy, pretending to feed it with the spoon. He whispered to it, “You only need one if you love enough.” I smiled from the doorway. He was learning, too.

Mama says when we have more money, we’ll buy a set. Maybe even matching plates and forks. But I don’t care if we ever do.

Because sometimes, what holds a family together…

isn’t how many things you own.

It’s how many things you share.

And every night, we share that one silver spoon — full of soup, full of love, full of memory.