Page 151 of When the Storm Breaks
Chapter 49
Haiyden
3 months ago
Saturday morning family breakfast has always been a tradition in the Greystone household. And it always starts the same.
My mom wakes up early—stripping bed sheets, gathering dirty towels, sorting clothes into neat baskets lined up outside the laundry closet.
The washing machine hums quietly behind the door.
The sharp scent of bleach drifts from the bathroom down the hall, softened only slightly by a flickering lemon candle.
In the kitchen, the warmth of sweet pancakes and bitter coffee hangs in the air—a scent that’s always meant home.
When we were kids, Saturdays felt like a gift. Like something special.
Our rooms were directly across the hall, and without fail, Willow was always up before me. She’d bounce on her toes outside my door, knocking, calling my name, insisting it was time for pancakes.
Even after we moved out, she still showed up early—waitingfor me at the door. Because breakfast couldn’t start until we were all together.
It was the one thing that kept us connected.
The one thing that kept usus.
But after Willow died, Saturday mornings became nothing more than an empty echo of what they used to be. I still showed up. I made sure of that. But the house was too quiet. The familiar smells had turned bitter.
My dad buried himself in the newspaper. My mom changed her pancake recipe. The small TV in the kitchen buzzed softly over the silence—a poor attempt to fill the space Willow left behind.
The tradition didn’t die with her.
But all the joy in it did.
This morning is no different. We’re together—but not really.
For a while, the only sounds in the kitchen are the sizzle of pancakes hitting the griddle and the occasional rustle of newspaper pages.
I sip my coffee, tasting the bitterness more than usual, as idle conversation drifts through the air like background noise.
My mom asks about work.
I answer.
My dad grunts but doesn’t look up.
And I start to miss the days when we were a family. When this wasn’t the normal.
When we’ve finished eating, my mom stands, clears the plates, and wipes the table before slipping out of the kitchen.
I hear the familiar creak of the laundry closet door, the soft clatter of the detergent bottle, the loud rattle of the machine kicking on.
I twist my coffee mug between my hands, fingers threading through the handle, just waiting—
For my dad to say something.
For my mom to come back.
For enough time to pass that I can leave.
