PART 1 — Coffee Was Not Breakfast

The coffee tin made a hollow sound when I tipped it, and only a thin line of grounds slid into my palm.

Patricia was already on speakerphone.

“Mom, did you eat breakfast?”

“I am making coffee.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I measured the grounds and looked at the cupboard over the sink.

“I have plenty of food.”

“Then eat something with it.”

“I will.”

She was quiet for a few seconds.

A cabinet closed on her end of the call, and one of my grandchildren said something I couldn’t make out.

“Mom, please hear me out.

You have been working too many hours.”

“I am doing fine.”

“You always say that.”

“I say it because it is true.”

The coffee began dripping, one brown drop at a time.