A few days later, on the weekend, we have breakfast together—real food, not just hot chocolate. I have the day off, and I wanna make sure he eats properly before going to his second job. On weekends, he picks up shifts in a cleaning crew.
I’ve made eggs and bacon, and I’m happy to see him eat without putting up a fight first. He’s more or less accepted my need to feed him. Sometimes I see a flare of the old stubbornness in his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything out loud anymore, and in return, I pretend I don’t notice when he contributes groceries. My stomach fills with satisfaction when he lets me fuss over him without objections.
“Did you know that some chickens lay blue eggs?” he asks between bites.
I chuckle. “You been researchin’ chickens?”
“Of course. You know me. And I’m practici
