A penny-pinching white-collar corporate type (I think the huge company Eric worked for, which had buildings in Cleveland, Chicago, Philadelphia, and New York, among others, dealt with stocks or something); he always had a fat pocketful of cash. Yet Eric Foster hardly ever bought my mom or me anything. Only once did I see that cheapskate buy my mother flowers or chocolate, let alone a toaster or jewelry. I was glad Eric Foster did not try to become my new daddy. I couldn’t stand that guy. Anyway, as I continued to eat my bacon and cheese omelet, I observed my mom grab a loaf of Wonder bread from off of the counter. She undid the plastic bag and then dropped the slice I had requested into the toaster. I was praying that she wouldn’t bring up Nancy again. It seemed like she wanted to, but was trying hard not to. Whatever was going on with her, I could tell my mother had a lot on her mind; she seemed to be distracted. Lost in thought. “Mom, can I have some orange juice?”
