Stirring the Past: Sleepless Nights and Sautéed Onions

The first thing I notice is the sizzle. The onions hit the pan and smoke rises, curling around my face, burning my eyes just enough to mask the tears. I’m not crying, I tell myself – it’s just the onions. But my hands are shaking as I stir, and I can hear the clock ticking in the living room. 2:13 a.m. The world is asleep, except for me and my ghosts.

My phone lights up on the counter. I flinch, half-expecting to see Dave’s name. But it’s just another spam text. “You up?” it says. I snort. If only they knew.

I used to love these late hours, back when Dave and I would sneak into the kitchen after the kids were asleep. We’d talk about everything and nothing, sharing spoonfuls of leftover mac and cheese, laughing as we tried not to wake up Sarah and Ethan. I thought we were invincible then, that nothing could touch us.

I stir the onions harder. The kitchen is cramped, but it’s mine now. My territory. After the divorce, Dave took the car and the dog, and I got the house and the memories. It’s funny how a place can change. Every tile, every dent in the fridge, every greasy pan reminds me of what we lost.

The night he told me about her—Ashley, of all names—I was slicing onions, too. Dave came in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. “Karen,” he said, voice thin as paper, “I need to tell you something.”

I remember how the knife slipped, cutting into my palm. I didn’t even feel it at first. The pain came later, a slow burn, just like the betrayal. He said it was just one night. He said it didn’t mean anything. But somehow, that made it worse. I watched the blood bead up on my skin and wondered if I’d ever feel whole again.

Sarah, now fifteen, barely speaks to me. She blames me for the split, for the way Dave moved out and plastered on a fake smile every other weekend. Ethan, only nine, keeps asking when Daddy’s coming home. I keep telling him, “He’s just living somewhere else for now, sweetie.” But I see the confusion in his eyes. I see the way he stares at the empty seat at the dinner table, how he leaves half his plate untouched, as if waiting for someone to come claim it.

Tonight, Sarah’s door slammed so hard the walls shook. “You don’t get it, Mom!” she screamed. “You ruined everything!”

I wanted to yell back, to tell her how hard it’s been. How some nights I lie awake, counting cracks in the ceiling, wondering where I went wrong. But I just stood there, swallowing my words like bitter pills.

The onions are burning now. I scrape them off the pan, let them fall into the trash. I don’t even know why I started cooking. Maybe I thought if I could just feed us, keep the ritual alive, things would go back to normal. But nothing feels normal anymore.

I hear footsteps. Ethan, his hair a wild mess, stands in the doorway rubbing his eyes.

“Mom, are you okay?”

I force a smile. “Just making a snack. Want some eggs?”

He nods, shuffling over to the table, hugging his knees to his chest. There’s a bruise on his shin—soccer practice, probably. I crack eggs into the pan, the shells shattering like the promises Dave made.

“Do you miss Dad?” Ethan asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I pause, spatula in mid-air. “Yeah, buddy. I do. But sometimes people hurt each other, even when they don’t mean to.”

He looks at me, searching for something I can’t give him. “Is it my fault? Because I was bad at school?”

My heart twists. I kneel beside him, wrapping my arms around his small frame. “No, Ethan. Never. This is between grown-ups. We both love you, no matter what.”

He nods, but I can see the doubt lingering. I wish I could erase it, scrub it away like burnt bits from the pan.

After he’s back in bed, I stand at the sink, staring out the window at the empty street. Somewhere, Dave is probably asleep next to Ashley, dreaming about a life that isn’t this one. I wonder if he ever thinks about me, about the years we built together, the inside jokes, the dreams whispered in the dark.

My hands shake as I wash the dishes. There are nights when the silence is so loud it drowns out everything else. I replay every conversation, every fight, every moment I could have seen it coming. Was it the late nights at the office? The way he stopped kissing me goodbye? Or was it something broken in both of us, a slow drift we never noticed?

Sarah’s door opens. She stands in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes red. “Mom?”

“Yeah, honey?”

She hesitates, then steps closer, voice trembling. “I’m scared. What if you leave, too?”

My heart shatters all over again. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

She nods, and for a second, she’s my little girl again. I want to hold her, to tell her it’ll all be okay, but I know she’s too old for fairytales now. She needs the truth, even if it hurts.

I sit down at the table, staring at my hands. The smell of burned onions lingers, mixing with old grief and something like hope. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe I’ll find a way to hold my family together, even if it looks different now.

But as the night stretches on, I can’t help but ask myself: When the people we trust most break us, how do we ever put the pieces back together? And if we can’t, is it enough just to keep showing up, one sleepless night at a time?