Breakfast

You looked out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been.

Still perpetual night with a chance of amorphous mucus-colored blobs of toxic gas.

The weatherpeople aren’t paid to tell you what will happen tomorrow, really. They’re here to help you make it there. A little hope every day that tomorrow you can step outside and breathe. Or, if nothing else, a bet that you make with yourself that they’re wrong. You have to live to tomorrow to see that you’re right.

You shut the blinds again. This was the bathroom, and it had always been a sacred place where the only toxic clouds are your own. You chuckled to yourself and thought about when you’d tell that joke to the kids. Probably best to save it for an acid-rainy day, where dad jokes are the last link to the exquisite boredom of the way things used to—

Down the hall, Kevin was threatening to open the window in Ellie’s room if she didn’t let him have the last stick of frozen French toast. There were 11 more boxes in the basement freezer, so clearly he was just acting out because he was scared and frustrated and confused. Also, those French toast sticks weren’t that good, and definitely not worth killing your sister for, no matter how stir-crazy and irritable you might be.

At least he was living out his fearsome fours inside? Ellie, though she was identical to him, didn’t share his angst. Maybe it was better for it to be contained. No awkward apologies to the babysitter. No preschool parent-teacher conferences. Life’s little comforts.

You sighed and flung open the door so that it banged against the wall. Immediately, the voices hushed down the hall. You laughed to yourself, knowing that the kids normally saw you as a gentle giant, but that you could bellow like a bear when you needed to.

“You’re going to wake your mother!” you shouted down the hall at the top of your lungs.

Evelyn cracked the door and peered blearily out. “Wow,” she muttered. “You should be a forecaster.”

You kissed her forehead on the way to the end of the hall, where the children were sitting on Ellie’s bed and Kevin wouldn’t look you in the eye. “Hey, buddy.” You sat down to face him. “Why are we throwing Ellie out the window today?”

He shrugged. “French toast. Bored.” He looked up at you mischievously. “Fun.”

“You’re right. That would be fun. Well, I’ve just decided that I want the last piece of French toast. So, go ahead. Let’s throw me out the window.”

Kevin frowned. “But you’re too big, though.”

You laughed. “Because I’m the one eating all the French toast!”

If you could get Kevin to crack a smile, it was all over. But he wasn’t giving up easily. “We need a bigger window.” You raised your eyebrows. “And I need to do more push-ups, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Okay, man. How many push-ups do you need? Do I have time for a last meal?”

Kevin thought for a moment, then nodded before hopping off the bed and adopting a lopsided push-up position. “Fifteen push-ups.”

“I’d better hurry. Guess I’ll have to cook the French toast stick in the microwave instead of the toaster oven. Gross!”

Ellie looked on in horror. “Daddy... This isn’t fair.”

You raised your hands. “Hey, baby, this is something I have to do. This is justice. The punishment fits the crime. I’ll miss you, though.”

She crossed her arms. “No, not that. That was my French toast stick and now it’s yours and you didn’t even ask me.”

You chuckled in surprise. “Well, I guess you’ll have to fight with your brother over who gets to toss me out, then!”

Kevin leapt up. “Wait!” His eyes sparked with inspiration. “We might be strong enough to throw him out the window together!” Ellie frowned. “Come on, El,” he urged, “I’ll let you have all the mac and cheese.”

Ellie didn’t look convinced. “Hot chocolate.”

Kevin sighed. “Sour candies.”

Ellie perked up, but then grew pensive once more. “But did you eat all the watermelon candies out of the bag again?”

Kevin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Of course, you were running out of time to cook the final French toast stick of your existence, but the drama was just too enthralling. Kevin opened his eyes and gazed at Ellie with the graveness of at least an eight-year-old. “Ellie, I never ate the watermelon candies. I just hid them from you because I knew they were your favorite. Look, they’re all in here.” He opened his toybox and lifted out a few action figures and coloring books. Ellie slid off the bed and went to look. “See?” Kevin said. “I don’t even like the watermelon. I like the lemon.”

Ellie’s little eyes widened. “I hate the lemon.”

Kevin pinched her nose. “There! We’re a great team. Now let’s work together to throw Dad out the window. Are you ready, Dad?”

“Well,” you said, “I haven’t had my French toast stick yet, but I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Perfect,” replied Kevin without missing a beat. He ripped the comforter off Ellie’s bed and she made a soft sound of protest. He hushed her, explaining, “It’s to roll him up so we can lift him easier.” He spread the comforter on the floor and gestured stiffly. “Lie down, please.”

As they wrapped you up, Evelyn knocked on the door and stepped in. “Why is Dad a burrito?” she asked.

“We’re throwing him out the window,” Ellie answered matter-of-factly.

“Ah.” She looked down at you, and you saw the smile she hid from Ellie and Kevin. “Well, it looks like you’ve got it covered. I’ll make breakfast now so it’ll be ready when you’re done. Oh, but I ate the last French toast stick. What do you want instead?”

The children stared at her, mouths agape. You realized she had been listening at the door the whole time, and thought about how, in your vows, you promised to always be falling in love with something new about her. This was nowhere near the realm of what you had expected.

“We can’t take them both,” Kevin whispered, and Ellie shook her head, her finger in her mouth, eyes wide.

The children sat down on the blanket with you in defeat, and Evelyn knelt on your other side, leaning her head against your shoulder.

“You kids know why I keep the curtains closed in the bathroom?” you inquired softly.

They shook their heads.

“Because it’s my special place. Only my toxic clouds allowed.”

“But Dad,” Kevin protested, “you fart everywhere, not just the bathroom.”

You paused to think for a moment. “Kevin,” you said sternly, “that is a very good point.”

“Thanks. I have to make some bathroom weather now.” You chuckled at his turn of phrase as he got up and left.

Evelyn changed the subject. “You know, they updated the forecast. It’s calling for toxic clouds today. Can you believe that?”

Before you could let out your clever retort (it was going to be very clever), Kevin called out from the bathroom. “Dad! Dad! Come look outside!”

“What did I tell you about the curtains?” you chided as you opened the door. “I don’t care if you’re right, this place is still special to me.”

“Dad. Look.” Ellie had climbed onto the toilet and was gazing out the window.

You stood behind your children. And you looked.

“Well,” you said. “They were wrong again.”

Kevin had lost all of his fearsomeness. Now it was just fear. “Dad?” he asked. “Do we have to move to the basement now?”

You looked at your wife, then at Ellie, then back at Kevin. “I think so, buddy. Just to be safe from the blue fireballs raining from the sky. Why don’t you start packing and I’ll try to learn a little bit more about what’s going on?”

Kevin nodded mutely and padded toward his room in his footie pajamas. Ellie gasped and ran after him, shouting, “Kevin! Don’t forget to bring the watermelon sour candies!”

You followed them out into the hallway and saw that Kevin had stopped short of his room and was standing at the door, motionless. You approached him and put your hand on his shoulder. “Can’t you just throw me out the window?” he mumbled. “I don’t want to see my room get destroyed.”

“If I threw you out the window,” you responded, “we’d never finish all of the French toast sticks in the basement. We need you, my man.”

You watched Kevin’s resolve envelope his face. “Okay,” he conceded. “For the French toast.”

What a strange little comfort, once again. If the weatherpeople ever gave up on it, you’d always help your children find a reason to wake up tomorrow.

***

“What… was… What was that?” You rip off the VR headset and blink as your eyes adjust to the light and you attempt to find someone at which to direct your rage. “That was horrible! How do you even stay in business? I…”

The employee at the controls looks confused. “The VR simulation hasn’t begun yet. We’re a startup, so… We, uh, have sponsors. That was just the pre-game ad for Cracker Barrel.”