A Cup of Tea for One

After her children left for university, Salma stopped setting the table. She ate standing beside the stove or carried a plate to the sofa. Cooking for one felt unnecessary; arranging a meal for one felt almost embarrassing.

One afternoon she visited a friend who lived alone and noticed a small tray: tea, sliced fruit, a proper cup, a napkin. “Who is coming?” Salma asked. Her friend laughed. “Me.”

The answer stayed with her.

The next morning Salma made tea in the blue cup she usually saved for guests. She sat by the window instead of drinking while doing chores. Nothing profound happened. The tea simply tasted better while it was hot.

She began cooking smaller portions of food she actually liked instead of treating meals as fuel. Once a week she invited someone over—a sister, a neighbor, sometimes a cousin who worked nearby. Other days she ate alone, but the difference was important: alone no longer automatically meant neglected.

Loneliness had quietly convinced Salma that care should arrive from another person. If no one was there, she gave herself less. But loneliness is already a form of deprivation; reducing care can deepen it.

A cup of tea for one is not a substitute for companionship. It is a refusal to abandon yourself while companionship is absent. It says: this person, sitting here today, is still worth feeding, comforting, and treating with attention.

Sometimes the first relationship we repair in a lonely season is the one we have with our own daily life.