The morning began with a bitter after taste. As he nudged sleep away from his eyes, the grogginess made way for last night’s shouting match. Ah, yes. It happened on most nights, but hiding in the dark of his bedroom, he had realized this was worse than usual.
He dressed slowly not wanting to rush out. But he didn’t take too long; his mother would be waiting in the kitchen, fixing him breakfast.
As she placed a bowl of cereal on the table, he noticed a dark storm had gathered on her face. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to wish her bruises away.
“Mom,” he ventured, swirling the milk so the crunchy golden flakes hit into each other like little dashing cars.
“Don’t play with you food” she said.