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I'm making you a welcome home omelet with trimmings while Destiny cuts and serves the fruit. The toast will be ready shortly."Mom was certainly never served a breakfast that was made by someone outside the family in her own kitchen. I could see her watch Charlene carefully with a strange look on her face.I put my arm around her and whispered, "Special breakfasts are one of Charlene's trademarks. If she doesn't do it, she feels funny all day. Enjoy. Your turn will come."She laughed. "Who decides whose turn it is?" Charlene."We watched as Charlene put omelets for the others carefully in aluminum wrap and put them in the warming oven. They would be nice and hot when people came to eat.After eating a few bites, Mom said, "Well, Charlene, thank you. This is outstanding."Then the three of us sat around and talked about school, life in general, college, and girl stuff for an hour. Others began to drift in and make their plates. Mom went immediately to make a fresh pot of coffee, finding. Going up the stairs to the personal study, she heard little indications he was there. Her step wasn’t heavy, but she didn’t try to be silent, either. As she approached, she heard little mutters of intellectual exploration, an occasional cough, and as she got closer, breathing. When she got to the top of the stairs, she thought her heart might burst. How would he see her now? He could overwhelm her, and perhaps a small piece of her consciousness wanted him to. Would he look at awkwardly, unused to giving affection and unsure of how to proceed? Or would he give her to tutorial gaze, asking what she’d learned from her day outside, and proposing an inquiry for her to pursue the next day? He sat at his scriptorium, making notes from an ancient tome, lost in thought. His hand was a blur and the sound of his quill like a small insect struggling to escape a box. ‘Did you have a nice day?’ he asked, not looking up. ‘Yes, Master. You?’ ‘Productive. Is something troubling you?’ She blinked and.
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