Dad answered with his mouth full. “When you come back, we’ll have breakfast for dinner. Deal?”
“I don’t want to have ‘breakfast for dinner,’” I answered, crossing knife and fork over my mostly full plate.
I want to have scrambled eggs for dinner without this ridiculous construction
that a scrambled egg–inclusive meal is breakfast even when it occurs at dinnertime.”
You’ve gotta pick your battles in this world, Hazel,” my mom said. “But if this is the issue you want to champion, we will stand behind you.”
“Quite a bit behind you,” my dad added, and Mom laughed. Anyway, I knew it was stupid, but I felt kind of bad for scrambled eggs.
After they finished eating, Dad did the dishes and walked us to the car.
Of course, he started crying, and he kissed my cheek with his wet stubbly face.
He pressed his nose against my cheekbone and whispered, “I love you. I’m so proud of you.” (For what, I wondered.)
“Thanks, Dad.” “I’ll see you in a few days, okay, sweetie? I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Dad.” I smiled. “And it’s only three days.”
As we backed out of the driveway, I kept waving at him. He was waving back, and crying.
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