Brandon once again found himself in the kitchen, this time with sunlight streaming in the windows, and the ubiquitously comforting smell of the sizzling bacon that he had dropped into a pan. He had watched his mother cook, far more creatively than this morning’s repast would be, and enjoyed it. On this morning, it seemed especially welcome. And necessary.

“Your farewell meal?”

His mother had appeared in the doorway. In the background, secured in her high chair, Alexis fussed quietly.

Brandon turned the heat off under the bacon and put down the bowl of eggs that he was about to beat. “Well…I wanted to do something..I don’t know, special.” He resumed working on the eggs. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

Her initial vocal edge softened. “That’s sweet.” She walked over to him and kissed the top of his head. “I’m sorry. This is hard for me. Last night…let’s just say…”

“…was shitty.”

She smiled at him. “No hyperbole there.” Brandon knew what that meant. His latest interest had been diligently studying the lists of vocabulary words that his English teacher gave his 7th-grade class daily. He liked hearing, and especially saying, those words; to him they were part of the secret code spoken by adults.

He finished whipping the eggs. They had acquired a froth, which was just as he liked them. He told a joke that Nonny told often, when cooking breakfasts of her own:

“Why is the cook mean? Because he beats the eggs and whips the cream.”

His mother laughed. “Yes, Nonny told us that one, too.” She sat down and shot him an added smile when she saw that her morning iced coffee had been poured for her.

“When she served us hard-booked eggs…she’d put them in these little egg cups, so we could whack them with a knife and cut the tops off. Karen and I would draw scared faces on all the eggs.”

Brandon laughed. “That’s sick! I’m doing that someday.”

His mother’s smile turned slightly sad. “I don’t know…do you think Greta would find that funny?”

Not a chance, Brandon thought. “Probably not.” He poured the eggs into the heated pan. He liked watching the butter melt; waiting until the moment it began to bubble, just before browning. “I don’t really know what she likes.”