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The floor creaks in the early hours of the day as the sun barely peeks through the window, flooding the hallway in dim light. The night before had been hectic, screaming and crying and frantic packing. It wasn’t anything new, at least not in her house, but last night felt different. Fiona pokes her head into her parents’ bedroom, staring at the single lump under the covers.
“Dad?” her small voice cuts through the silence as she steps into the room.
Beer bottles litter the floor, cigarettes fill the ashtray next to the bed, the room is heavy with the stench of smoke and tears. The dresser drawers are half open, emptier than they were the day before. She nudges Frank, he grunts.
“Dad?” Fiona repeats, firmly this time. A hand flies up and shoos her away, mumbling something she can’t quite make out.
With a huff, she turns on her heel and makes her way down the hall to her brothers’ bedroom. The hinges groan as she pushes the door open and the bottom edge scrapes against the carpet. Lip meets her eyes, the blanket tugged up to his chin. His eyes are wide as he stares back.
“Ian awake?” She whispers. Lip shakes his head silently.
She looks over to Ian as he sleeps, he looks peaceful, blissfully unaware of the night before. For a moment, she wonders if he’ll even remember this. Fiona turns back to Lip, reaching her small hand to his.
“y’ hungry?” She whispers. He nods in response and takes her hand.
***
It wasn’t her first time making breakfast alone. Fiona moves through the kitchen skillfully from nine years of hands-off parenting. Clumsy hands pour two glasses of milk from a full jug, the toast pops.
Fiona hands Lip a full cup “Careful. Peanut butter or jelly?” She smiles.
He thinks for a moment as he chews on the edge of his cup “Jelly.” he mumbles into the plastic.
The knife scrapes across the toast as she spreads a generous pad of butter onto it and follows up with a thick glob of strawberry jelly. Small footsteps clamor down the stairs, stopping and starting before they make it to the kitchen. Fiona smiles at the red-headed toddler as she pours another glass of milk.
“Morning Ian, y’ hungry?” She asks softly, loading the toaster up once more.
***
Two pieces of slightly burnt toast, half a cup of spilled milk, and four paper towels later, Lip and Ian are sitting in front of the TV, happily munching on their breakfast.
Fiona climbs the stairs with a plate and two glasses of milk balanced on top. She’d used the good parts of the bread on her brothers, leaving her with the weird end bits. She spread one side with peanut butter, the other with jelly, pressed the pieces into a sandwich and cut it in half.
Fiona approaches her parents’ bedroom once more, kicking her foot into the doorframe to make her presence known.
“Dad.” She calls out again. “Made breakfast.” She explains as she places a glass of milk onto the cluttered bed-side table. The lump stirs before slowly sitting up.
She looks at her father for the first time today, his eyes are hollowed out and puffy. Fiona passes him half of the sandwich, Frank sits up fully in response. They eat in silence, save for the occasional sniffle from Frank.
“You made this?” He asks, turning to his daughter.
Fiona nods as she takes another bite.
“It’s good.” He mumbles, finishing his sandwich and wiping his palm onto his shirt.
“Good job, kid.” Frank says finally, his voice thick and low. He pats Fiona on the shoulder twice before turning over and laying down once again.
Fiona stares at Frank, feet dangling over the edge of the bed her parents once shared. She takes the final bite of her sandwich and hops off, dusting away the crumbs before she disappears down the hall.