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“I think we can do blueberry cereal.”

“Will you tell mommy before she makes me eggs.” Mabel wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like eggs.”

Mabel and eggs have an on-and-off relationship. They have since the day Faye conceived her. Eggs, however, have always been Owen’s breakfast of choice.

I stand, moving to the door. “I’ll make sure you get blueberry cereal.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

I head into the hall and continue on my path down the stairs. Duke’s nails click and skid against the floor, and I see why when a banana with legs soars past my head to land by the front door, Duke hot the chase.

Owen laughs. “Sorry, Dad.”

“No problem.” Duke races between my legs, leggy banana squeaking in his mouth as he returns it to Owen, eager for another game of fetch.

Owen tosses the banana and nails skid as Duke takes off. I enter the kitchen to find lunch boxes and the fixings strewn across the counter, my wife looking beautiful with her wet hair twisted into a clip, a pair of black high-waist dress pants that make her ass look like heaven with a tight long sleeve cream shirt.

“Good morning.” She spins to stir the eggs she’s got in the frying pan before she turns back to the lunches. “How’d you sleep? How’re you feeling?”

“I’m good.” It’s not entirely a lie. I feel mostly A-okay today.

I just know I’m not okay, no matter how I feel.

“Good.” She throws a cheese string into each lunch box.

Milo meowls at me by the water bowl, which has water in it.

“What?” I ask the cat. “Not fresh enough for you?”

I bend to lift the bowl, dumping and refilling it as Faye adds yogurt to the kids’ lunch. Guilt lashes at me, because lunches were always my responsibility while Faye handled breakfast. Then I got the headaches, and I started sleeping in.

She never once complained as she took over juggling the balls I dropped.

She’s going to be okay—when the time comes…

The thought is like acid in my chest. It eats at me.

It fucking hurts.

I give the cat a scratch as I replace his bowl, moving to the fridge. I pull out Mabel’s blueberries, dumping them into a bowl.

Faye frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Mabel wants blueberry cereal.”

Faye looks to the pan on the stove. “I’m making eggs.”

My stomach turns as I lie, “I’m hungry today.”

I’m not hungry, but my daughter wants blueberries and my wife made eggs. I’m eating her eggs.

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.” I don’t miss the relief in her tone. It feels like a match striking that acid in my chest—igniting me on fire.

I know she’s wondering why I’m gaining weight the way I am when I’m hardly eating. Sometimes I catch her looking at me with that fear she can’t hide.

I just pat my growing gut and tell her, “Metabolism’s slowing down in my old age.”

Every time I joke about old age, though, it hurts. It hurts because I’m so young.