While frying bacon on the pan, the way I knew my dad liked it, I couldn't help but think about last night and the food. There was a sound behind me and I turned to see my dad walk into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe over his pajamas. "Good morning, Dad," I said. "What's with the cheerful voice this early," he grunted and sat down heavily in a chair. I smiled and looked at him. He never was much of a morning person. "I'm making bacon and scrambled eggs. Just the way you like them." My dad picked up the local paper and started reading while grunting some more. I shrugged and continued my cooking waiting for him to wake up properly. It always took a while. "So did you sleep alright?" I asked. My dad grumbled. "I never slept well in this house, not one single night in my life." "That's a little harsh, don't you think? Certainly there must have been nights in your childhood that you slept okay?" My dad put the paper down and looked at me. "I hate this place, end of story. Just like I loathed my mother who died in it.
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