I rummaged around in the refrigerator, searching for something to eat—I tended to eat when I was upset. Due to a lack of better options, I decided on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I slammed the ingredients down on the counter. Slapping two pieces of bread together, I made a quick sandwich. I added a handful of chips to my plate. Pop-Pop strolled into the kitchen. “What’s all the ruckus? It feels like an earthquake. I know you miss California and all, but this is taking it too far.” “I’m making lunch,” I retorted as I plopped down at the table to eat. “What you got there?” he asked, eyeing my sandwich. “Plain old pb and j.” “All that noise just to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Pop-Pop settled into his usual place at the kitchen table, folding his hands. Silently he watched as I stuffed a handful of salty chips in my mouth and chewed. I felt guilty for eating in front of him.
