Breakfast

“The one thing you can say about him,” my father said, a disembodied voice floating up from behind tall pages of the newspaper, “is that he never wastes an opportunity to butter his bread all the way to the edges.”

He waited for my mother to say something, but as soon as she thought about opening her mouth, he cut in quickly. “Especially when the bread and butter is bought with someone else’s dollar.”

My mother rolled her eyes and then saw I was looking at her so she smiled at me. The bacon grease popped in the frying pan.

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