Sweet Pumpkin Soup

The taste of sweet pumpkin soup spread warmth through her body. She couldn’t help but smile as she gazed into the eyes of her saviour. He lifted the spoon, steady and patient, as if each mouthful mattered. He had learned the recipe just for her. His creamy, homemade pumpkin soup reminded her of childhood—of being looked after when illness took over. This was how he showed his endless care for her.

Their ritual began at the hospital. After the weeks she spent starving herself down to the bone, soup was the only thing she could stomach. He was a nurse on the ward—gentle, unhurried, always appearing when her hands shook too much to lift the spoon. Quickly, he learned everything about her, and the best way to meet her needs.

Once discharged, he offered her his home without hesitation. His calm presence, the bond they shared, and the way he accepted her without question became what she loved most about him. He had become her safe place.

Days later, she sat in the same armchair by the fireplace each night, wrapped in a thin nightgown, watching steam waft from the bowl. Another spoonful slid down easily. With each swallow, she sank deeper into the chair—her body loosening, her thoughts blurring. He smiled the way he always did, soft and pleased, as she leaned back and closed her eyes. Their little ritual continued to heal her of the past.

Weeks passed. Pumpkin soup became the only dinner she ate. She stopped cooking altogether and stayed at his house every evening. The world narrowed to the same chair, the same bowl, the same hour.

“Perhaps you should just move in with me,” he offered, his voice as smooth as the soup itself.

It felt inevitable. “I’m fine staying with my parents… I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she muttered.

“No,” he said gently. “Please. I insist you stay with me. I can take better care of you if you’re here.” The thought filled her with relief.

A few weeks after she moved in, her family noticed a change she was blind to. Phone calls grew tense. Catch-ups became limited. She had become reliant on him.

“You don’t understand,” she snapped at her mother. “I’ve never been loved like this in my entire life.”

Silence answered her. When her mother finally spoke, her voice was careful. “I guess you’re all grown up now, and you can decide for yourself. It’s just… there’s something about him I don’t like.”

The call ended quickly. Her mother always had trust issues with every ex she had. Her love life was her business. Their little soup ritual was hers to keep and protect. Their love didn’t need rules; it was built on trust and support.

Her phone rang the next morning.

“Where are you?” her sister asked. “You were meant to meet me here forty minutes ago.”

She squinted at the clock. Nearly eleven. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she sighed, heavy with sleep. “I’ve been struggling to wake up lately.”

She arrived at the café shortly after. They greeted each other with the same goofy handshake they’d shared since childhood. Over coffee, she boasted about the man who had rescued her from herself—how attentive and patient he was. “He never asks for anything,” she said. “We haven’t even slept together. He’s never pressured me about anything.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow. “That sounds too good to be true.”

Like their mother, her sister always doubted people’s integrity.

As she stood to leave, her legs buckled. The table rattled as she stumbled. Her sister caught her arm.

“I’m okay,” she laughed, though her body didn’t agree.

That night, he beckoned her to the living room. “Your soup’s ready.”

She lowered herself into the chair, exhaustion clinging to her. “I’m so tired lately,” she murmured. He listened as he fed her—spoon after spoon—until the bowl was empty. He guided her to bed, laying her gently on the cotton sheets.

“What would I do without you?” she slurred.

He kissed her forehead. She was asleep before the light went off.

Morning brought nausea so sudden it doubled her over. She barely made it to the bathroom. Later, staring out at the orange leaves that gracefully fell, she realised her last period was during the summer holidays. The smell of toast turned her stomach. Something felt wrong. She made an appointment with her GP and waited for the results.

The doctor’s words burned through her body. “Congratulations, Ma’am… you’re pregnant.”

The room tilted. But how? No intimacy had been shared. No consent given. Only restful nights alone with him. Only sweet pumpkin soup and a goodnight kiss on her forehead.

The memories rearranged themselves—the sleep that came too fast, the heaviness that pinned her down, the soreness she’d dismissed. Horror clasped around her chest. Her breath became absent.

She rushed to her mother’s house and explained everything she could find words for. With validation and horror, they planned her escape—how to leave safely, how to take back control of her life.

She finally understood what the ritual had been: not nourishment or love, but access and abuse.

Years passed. She rebuilt her life with caution and with guidance from her family. Until one afternoon, in a café with her sister, she saw a waitress set a bowl of pumpkin soup on the next table. The taste and trauma reached her before she could look away.

Her body froze. The room narrowed. She pushed back her chair and stood shaking, her heart racing.

The physical danger had passed, but the trauma of the ritual had not.