The Breakfast Table

There was nothing I hated more than being at the breakfast table. If Thomas was home, it was an unspoken rule for the other Murphys in the house to be present by seven, and breakfast would be served precisely when the clock struck the hour, not a minute late and not a minute early.

I was the last to take a seat. The excessive drinking from the night prior left me with an unforgiving headache. My recollection of how I ended home was blurred, though I recalled stumbling past Thomas, who was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was visibly annoyed, curled his lips, and spoke to me. I heard nothing. Instead of asking, I giggled at him as if I saw the jolliest thing.

The boys were playing. Harper was holding a metal model airplane that Lizzie got him for his birthday, swinging it around and pretending it was flying up and down. Flynn was transfixed by the toy, watching its movements with his mouth open and eyes wide.

Watching the boys, I smiled. Every night, I prayed they'd grow into honest, decent men, despite knowing my prayers were futile.

It was a different God who held their innocence in his hand.

The plates clinked as they were set on the table. Thomas folded the newspaper and put it on the corner left to him.

"Wesley and I are coming to see you in the office at two," I said, stirring my coffee. "You probably know that already."

"Right," he acknowledged.

The suffocating silence resumed. The children paid no mind and carried on their play. The sounds of cutlery hitting the plates and cups being picked up and put down were driving me over the edge. Struggling to act unbothered, I lit a cigarette. Holding it between my lips, almost biting into it, I began cutting the sunny-side-up egg on my plate. And the only thing I could think of was how much I fucking hated eggs. Eggs made me sick. I'd never eat them again when – I meant if – I got to get away.

As of now, I had to eat it. Thomas resented wasting food of any kind.

"I have something to say," Clarence cleared his throat and said nervously. His fork in one hand and knife in the other.

"We don't talk business during meals, remember?" Thomas said strictly.

"It's not business," the eldest son swallowed, put down his utensils, and wiped his hands on the napkin. "It's a private matter."

"Go on then," Thomas squinted while I stared blankly across the table to the large, bright window and fence. I was behind that fence. We were behind that damn fence like livestock.

"I'm going to marry Mary," Clarence said swiftly, gathering his courage. "It's decided."

I snickered. Thomas laughed. I almost forgot about her.

"I'm being serious," The eldest son defended his impulsive statement. "It's not funny."

"Not her," I turned my head towards him. "She's not good enough for you. Your father will find you a suitable, proper woman and…."

"No," he raised his voice and interrupted me. "No. I'm not Aunt Emma. You can't choose whom I marry."

"…and not to mention you're too young to marry," I finished my sentence and took the cigarette between my fingers. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Stop mocking me," he stood up recklessly. "I will marry her."

"Sit down," the father said coldly and sternly. The son contemplated and wisely chose to obey the order as he was supposed to. Lifting his chin, the father continued: "You will not marry her. There will be an appropriate woman for you in some years' time. Alternatively, you can grow up and be mature enough to find yourself one."

Clarence clenched his fists and mumbled under his breath. A clever boy like him knew not to speak up if he were to make something out of himself in this family.

"Mommy, can I fly an airplane when I grow up?" Flynn, oblivious of what was happening – out of a child's previous naivety – pulled on my sleeve and asked.

"You can be whatever you want, dear," I lied and pinched his chubby cheeks with a smile.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Clarence rolling his eyes.