By: Aliya Okamoto
On the table: three empty bowls, a carton of milk beside a carton of orange juice, and two boxes of cereal; colourful ones always taste better. The sun penetrates through the glass and sets on the table, as if to invite me. Jumping onto my chair, I indulge myself in a rainbow snack as Brother sits in front of me. “Morning silly!” He gives me a gentle and sympathetic, yet nervous smile. He seems more loving than usual. Consequently, I smile back, with fruit loops in between my teeth. While we both laugh subtly at my foolishness, hurried footsteps are heard down the stairs into the kitchen.
“Reneé, I, uh left some papers in our, uh,” he stutters, quickly fixing his mistake, “your room. Can I?”
Mom glanced at him but spoke no words. Darkness fills her sharp eyes. Dad stands there dully and shamefully. Confused as I am, I keep on chewing my joyful cereal, only now I don't truly crave it. I look straight at Brother, searching for guidance as to what is being revealed to us. However, he spoke no words, stuffing his face with plain oatmeal.
There is a dreadful, tense, and awkward silence that encloses the kitchen, except for the loud crunches which I try to silence by melting each piece in my mouth. Abruptly, Mom starts to yell as if she’s gone mad. I can feel Brother trembling, wishing her to stop.
“How dare you even look at me!” Brother stuffs his face further with the artless grain.
“Good morning.”
***
The clouds dipped in crimson, the sun like gold, about to perform its evening act. Usually, Brother and I love to watch the sun, but today is different. Mom is still in the kitchen, and the tension still hangs in the sky. Sometimes I wish we could own a television, simply to get rid of the silence. Dad and I are on the couch. As Dad leans forwards, covering his face, I can hear muffled cries. Noticing tears pouring through his fingers, I give Dad a hug.
“I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to lose control. I lost all we had.” His voice quavers, signifying his desperation. I gently comfort him, cluelessly insisting,
“Everything is going to be alright Dad, smile!”
“No. My dear girl, I broke your Mom’s heart. She gave me her trust, and I lost everything. It cost you and your Brother's life, Mom’s too. It's just too late now.” He breaks down again, and I embrace him as tightly as I can. I don't understand, I think. Not yet.
***
On the table: one empty bowl, a carton of orange juice, and one cereal box. The sun lights the old wooden table once more, and I quietly sit down. Dad is still sorry about his flaws, his gambling, his carelessness as he so puts it. Mom is not here to hear all the crying and see all the begging. Every breakfast we hear about it, and still, Mom doesn’t come home, she doesn’t care, and that's her flaw.
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