The Lion In The Kitchen [Fiction]

The raised voices of my wife and our two sons, twelve-year-old Jeff and eleven-year-old Mark, in the kitchen, made me uncomfortable. Whenever Angela was upset, her voice became high-pitched and piercing.

“What is going on here?” I asked, standing by the door and seeing the boys staring at the floor in remorse.

Angela turned on a heel and faced me, her chest heaving. “They had the nerve to dish out some chicken from the pot and ate. Without my permission!”

I arched a brow at the boys in question. Mark raised a finger like he was in class and said, “Uh, mom said we could dish ourselves some rice—”

“Did I say you could take some chicken?” Angela asked, effectively silencing Mark.

“Mom, we're really sorry. We didn't think you would mind,” Jeff explained calmly. Young yet mature beyond his years. He always had a knack for calming stormy situations.

I walked up to my wife and gazed into her eyes. A silent message passed between us as she nodded. “Boys, let me tell you a story,” I said knowing it would improve the boys' mood.

“Really, Dad. What story?” Mark said, curling his hand into mine. Angela scoffed, shook her head and left us three in the kitchen. We pulled out bar stools from the counter and sat down.

“An incident happened one day that shook my Mama to the bones.”

“Oh. What incid—”

“Be quiet, Mark and just listen,” Jeff scolded. I nodded in agreement. Mark was going to say something but decided against it.

“It was almost Christmas and Mama cooked a big pot of soup. Mind you, my Papa loved meat just like you boys.”

They giggled but gave me studious attention. “Often I would see Papa sneak into the kitchen, pick a meat or two from the soup pot and eat. Once he closed the lid, I would run away so he didn't know I saw him. That Christmas, Mama was working in the garden at the back of the house when Papa sneaked into the kitchen, a bottle of beer in his hand and took a very big piece of meat from the pot. He took his time chewing and licking the red stew off his fingers. I ran back to my room.”

“Did you tell grandma?” Mark blurted, his round eyes staring up at me. Jeff sighed in exasperation. I chuckled and ruffled his curly brown hair.

“What do you think? My mama checked the pot and screamed, “Who is the lion in my kitchen? The lion that steals meat from my pot everytime?””

The boys sucked in a breath as I paused for effect. “Mama gathers us children into the kitchen and no one could tell who had been taking meat from the pot. My brothers did not know but I did. Then Papa comes down and Mama tells him. He said, “I reckon is one of yer boys that took yer meat.”

“But why didn't you say, Dad?” Mark asked. Jeff nodded in agreement. “Yea, Dad. Why didn't you?”

“I did but my Mama did not believe me. On Christmas Eve when everyone was gone to bed at night, we heard my Mama yelling just like your Mom did. I ran to the kitchen with my brothers. She'd finally caught Papa red-handed, taking pieces of meat from the pot!”

“Oh. What happened after that?” Mark asked.

I shrugged. “Nothing. My mama found a better hiding spot for her pot of soup. So don't make your Mom do that, okay? Ask whenever you need something.”

“Sure, Dad. We are not lions, just hungry,” Mark replied. Jeff chuckled.

I patted their heads, believing they got the message. I left out the part where my Mama and Papa got separated after a few months.

I hope you enjoyed reading my short piece inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt —
“lion in the kitchen”.

Thank you for visiting my blog.

^{Images created by AI in Nightcafe Studio}