This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I heard my wife humming a familiar melody while she made breakfast and packed our lunches in the kitchen.

Now, before you get the wrong idea and think I’m suggesting women belong in the kitchen, let me reassure you. Our roles switch in the afternoon; she’s busy working while I cook dinner. It’s not a rigid arrangement, just something that evolved naturally. We like to help each other out, share the chores, and buy ourselves more time together in the evenings.

It isn’t a fixed schedule — it’s a voluntary expression of love.

The hum faded as she placed the lunches by the door, and soon the aroma of coffee filled the air. It was our comfortable morning ritual, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery and the gentle thud of the newspaper landing on the porch. Those simple sounds, woven together with the scent of brewing coffee, were more comforting than any words could be.

The tune she hummed caught me off guard.

Even though I’d been up for a while, it was already lodged in my head — and I knew I hadn’t been the one humming it that morning.

My thoughts drifted back to yesterday afternoon, when I had been humming the same song while cooking in the kitchen. The difference? She wasn’t there.

Her chair at the table stood empty. She’d gone to her boss’s house to tackle some much-needed paperwork after the long summer break. The house felt suddenly hollow — lonely, stripped of its usual warmth.

As I sliced potato wedges, humming to myself, I kept glancing at her vacant chair, wishing I could see her stealing looks at me while I worked. Our eyes would meet. I’d puff out my chest mid-chop and blow her a kiss. She’d catch it in the air, press a hand to her heart, and send one back.

Then her laptop would chime, tugging her away, and I’d be left wanting more.

Not in that way.

I missed my companion. My partner in crime. My confidante.

That morning, hearing the melody again stirred something deeper. An awareness of the invisible threads stitching our days together. Her absence wasn’t just a gap in the room — it was a wrong note in the familiar symphony of our life. The humming became a phantom echo, proof of a presence that lingered even when she was miles away, hunched over spreadsheets.

As the fishcakes crisped in the pan, turning a perfect golden brown, I assembled the cocktail brioche: thin tomato slices, gherkins, baby spinach, cheese. The air fryer hummed softly — fifteen minutes to go for the wedges.

Every few minutes I stepped onto the terrace, hoping she’d returned.

No such luck.

My heart sank a little. I missed her air-kisses. I missed her being there.

Inside again, I set the table. Arranged the condiments. Remembered exactly what she liked with each dish. The air fryer beeped. Five minutes.

I finished the garden salad — avocado, a scatter of pepper — and placed it where she could reach it easily. I surveyed the table, adjusting a fork, nudging a plate. Making sure everything was just right.

Still no sign of her.

But I wasn’t worried. I trusted the quiet agreement between us. She knew it too.

As I turned from the door, the familiar tune slipped from my lips.

I lifted the fishcakes onto the buns.

I knew she was behind me.

“Surprise!”

She wrapped her arms around me and planted a soft, slightly crooked kiss on my lips.

Surreal.

I plated the food while she sat. I took her hand. Closed my eyes for grace.

She hummed the same tune again.

A jolt went through me.

Surreal.

And then she said exactly what I’d hoped she would.

Surreal.

We ate while she unpacked gifts from her boss — souvenirs from a trip abroad. Her smile grew with every perfectly chosen item. I was so happy for her I forgot to eat.

As she repacked them, the bag tipped, and I saw the words printed on the side:

Thank you for being you.

A potato wedge lodged in my throat as I swallowed.

That was the title of the song.

Surreal.

My wife is a fantastic chef, yet she raves about my cooking. I think I know why. It’s the love folded into every dish — something you can actually taste.

Each morning, when I hand her a warm mug of coffee and we sit together on the terrace, I watch her take that first sip.

“Mmm, your coffee is magical,” she’ll say.

My heart does a little dance.

No, you’re the magic, I think.

If you’re curious about the song, search for “Thank You for Being You” by OctaSounds — the lyrics are beautiful.

And if you share our passion for cooking, not as routine but as devotion, you’ll find our love-filled recipes on our blog: smokingchimney.com.

Keep humming.

The tune you make is enchanting.