🔥Boiling Point🔫

When the pot boils over, so does she. 🍲💔🔥

The oil caught fire twice before she even realised.

She was just standing there spoon in hand staring through the wall like it owed her child support. It was Sunday. Rice and peas bubbling. Curry goat simmering. Plantains already fried. The kitchen was hot. Her head was hotter.

Three kids in the living room, arguing about who broke the remote. The baby crying. The eldest muttering under his breath like he paid rent.

She couldn’t even blame them. They were tired of the cycle.

So was she.

Ten years with a man who couldn’t come home on time to save his life.

Always smelling like cologne and guilt.

Always walking in grinning like he hadn’t left her crying.

When he finally showed up, 3:12 PM, he brought nothing but a cheap bottle of Magnum and a styrofoam container full of excuses.

“I brought you something,” he said like that meant anything.

She wiped the sweat off her neck and kept her back turned.

“I’ve got food already.”

“You’re still upset?”

“I’ve been upset since I took you back after the second baby.”

He laughed. Loud and careless. The kind of laugh that echoes in cramped apartments and sounds like disrespect. He reached for her waist.

She shifted. Just a little. But enough.

He noticed.

“It was just a party,” he said. “Nothing serious.”

“A party?”

She spun around now, spoon still dripping with curry. “I’m here cooking, raising your children, covering for you when your mother calls, and you’re out at a party?”

Silence.

Not guilt, calculation.

He was figuring out how much she knew. How far she’d go.

She’d already gone.

In her mind, she left years ago.

She looked tired. Not tired like sleep, tired in the soul.

The kind of tired that makes you cry in the shower and wipe your face before anyone notices.

She set the spoon down and wiped her hands.

Behind the bag of rice, under the foil paper, next to the old blender no one ever used, sat a gun. Her cousin left it there two weeks ago. Said it was “just in case.”

Her whole family was hustlers.

Scammers. Hairdressers. Pussy sellers. Weed sellers.

Uncles who ran sound systems and side deals.

She’d never planned to become one of them.

But love makes fools.

And fools eventually get tired.

He sat down like nothing had happened.

“I’m hungry,” he muttered, scrolling on his phone.

“You’re always hungry.”

She opened the pot. Steam kissed her face.

She dished the food slowly crisp plantain, thick gravy, well-seasoned rice.

She placed it in front of him with the grace of a final meal.

Then, without a word, she placed the gun beside the plate.

Soft. Direct. Deliberate.

He looked up.

His face changed.

She stared him dead in the eye.

“If you’re eating,” she said, “maybe next month you can pay the light bill. Or get the baby some shoes. Or stock the fridge you keep emptying every time you show up.”

He blinked. Swallowed.

She leaned closer.

“Let one more woman call my phone. Just one. I won’t ask questions. I won’t cry. I’ll just pull the trigger and cook the rest of you for the stray dogs outside.”

He tried to laugh, a dry, nervous chuckle.

She didn’t even flinch.

He picked up the fork like it might be his last time.

“You’re not serious.”

She raised a brow.

“Try me.”

From the living room, the baby giggled.

The oldest yelled, “Mummy, I’m hungry!”

She exhaled. Slow.

“I know,” she said, eyes still locked on the man who made her this version of herself.

“Eat.”

He started chewing like the plate held secrets.

She leaned back, sipped her rum cream, and watched him closely.

It wasn’t just dinner.

It was a message.

And it was well seasoned.

She heard the baby let out a sharp cry, then the big one shout, “A me did have di remote first!” and the middle one scream, “Mummy, mi hungry bad!”

She turned off the stove. Picked up three plates and moved without thinking, without breathing too deep. Muscle memory. Routine. She didn’t look at him again. Not yet.

She dished the food like she always did — small pieces for the baby, cut the plantain in half, extra gravy for the middle one, more rice for the big one. She knew what each of them liked. What they’d argue about. What they’d leave back.

She walked into the living room, plates balanced like burdens and dropped them one by one on the little table in front of the sofa. The kids surrounded the food like puppies. The baby clapped. The middle one grinned. The big one nodded like thanks was too much but he meant it.

“You lot sit up and eat good,” she said, brushing crumbs off the cushion. “If anybody spill juice, is problems.”

They didn’t answer. Mouths already full.

She kissed the baby’s curls. Ran her hand across the big one’s shoulder. Watched the middle child wipe his fingers on his shorts and suck his teeth because his brother got a bigger piece of chicken.

She let them be.

For a second, it looked like love again.

But then she turned back toward the kitchen.

And remembered the gun on the table.

And the coward sitting beside it.

He took another bite of food, slow like he was testing it for poison. His eyes glanced up every few seconds, but she wasn’t looking at him. She had gone back to the sink, pouring out the excess oil from the plantains like it was holy water. Her shoulders were stiff. Her movements neat. Too neat.

The way she held the pot with the cloth. The way she wiped the counter twice. The way she rinsed the spoon under cold water for too long.

He shifted in the chair and pulled the plate closer.

"You seasoning different today," he said, voice too light. "This one hot still."

She didn’t answer.

"Yuh alright?"

Still nothing.

He sat up straighter, pausing mid-chew.

"I said yuh alright?"

She turned around slowly, cloth in her hand. Her face was calm, too calm, like she had made peace with something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

"I look alright?"

"Yuh nuh look vex," he lied. "But you quiet. And you only get quiet when you thinking ‘bout something deep."

He chuckled to himself like it was a joke. But nothing felt funny. Not the sweat collecting at his back. Not the gun still on the table beside the half-eaten food. Not the way her eyes narrowed like she was lining up a thought before it left her tongue.

"I’m tired," she said. "Tired of noise. Tired of mess. Tired of this kitchen being the only place anybody ever see me."

He licked his lips and pushed the plate away slightly. His appetite had started to curl in on itself.

"You want me help with the dishes?"

That made her smile.

Just a little.

"You offering to do dishes now?"

"Mi tryna do better, babes."

She folded the cloth and placed it down carefully.

"Better," she repeated. "You know what better look like to me?"

He waited.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she walked to the fridge and pulled out a fresh bottle of water. She poured it into a cup, placed the cup on the table beside the gun, then leaned her hip against the fridge.

"Better look like showing up before Sunday dinner done. It look like calling your son on his birthday instead of texting him a fifty-pound voucher like you one of them absentee donors."

He frowned. "Mi tell yuh mi phone did—"

"Better," she said, cutting him clean, "looks like not putting me in situations where I have to lie to your mother about where you sleep at night."

He looked down at the plate, then up at her. There was something off. Too quiet. Too cool. She hadn’t raised her voice once. And that? That scared him more than cussing.

"You sure you alright?"

She stepped forward now, slow, barefoot against the tile. The fan rotated behind her but her body didn’t move with the breeze. She looked carved out of heat and heartbreak.

She picked up the cup. Held it in one hand. Picked up the gun with the other.

Still no rush.

Still no words.

He swallowed hard.

"Talk to me, man. Mi know mi mess up sometimes but mi trying. Yuh acting like somebody dead."

She blinked once. Twice. Her thumb brushed the side of the gun like she was wiping dust off truth.

Then she tilted her head to the side and finally said it.

"A who name Sharlene? Apparently she six months pregnant fi you."