Breakfast In Bed

         It was raining when David backed out of his driveway and turned toward the highway. Any other Mother’s Day morning he would be serving her breakfast in bed. He would wake up without a sound, sneak into their daughter’s bedroom, and together the two of them would put together a breakfast buffet of eggs and bacon and pancakes and biscuits. He would dig out a tray from under the sink, pour a glass of milk and a glass of orange juice, and help Becca carry the banquet to her mother. But he woke up alone this morning in a different bed and a different house. He stumbled into a different kitchen and had a cup of bad coffee and a stale doughnut. He dug through piles of laundry, sniffing each piece until he found something less dirty than the rest, then slid his feet into a pair of loafers and grabbed his keys.
         David woke up tired every morning since he had moved out. It had been over two months since she asked for the divorce, and he still could not sleep without having a few pillows to wrap his arms around. He was late to work more often than not, and he started eating lunch at McDonald’s instead of taking a sandwich and an apple with him. His cabinets were empty except for a couple of cans of tomato soup and tuna fish, and the toilet bowl had a discolored ring around the water line. He knew she would be disappointed if she ever saw the inside of his house, but she would probably never see it.
         The needle on the gas gauge rested on the peg below the red line when he turned off the highway. David knew that he could make it across town and back on the fumes in his tank. He liked to go to the family-owned gas station near his house, and he had never once found himself stranded on the side of the road before he could get there -- something he attributed to luck.
         He slowed down when he pulled onto Miller Street. The neighborhood was gray and wet and silent. He took the turn at the first stop sign toward the fifth house on the left. There were two cars parked in the drive. One was hers, and the other he did not recognize. He thought about driving past. He could take the next street and loop around to the highway again without ever being noticed. He could make it back to that family-owned gas station near his house, go to Waffle House for a quick breakfast, and then spend the day doing laundry. He could order a pizza later that night and fall asleep on the couch with the television on and a slice of cheese and pepperoni in his hand. He could wake up the next morning, tired but oblivious, and think it typical to have not seen her the day before. Instead, he parked his car behind the stranger’s.
         The rain had turned into a fine mist that stuck to his arms and shirt and thin blonde beard as he trudged up the brick steps to the door. David knocked and waited and thought. He wondered what was taking her so long even though he already knew. He knocked again. Clumsy footsteps thumped inside, and the door cracked open. She stuck her head out and halfway smiled. He had never seen the shirt she had draped over her slender body.
         “Morning,” David said.
         “Hey.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Um, how are you?”
         “I’m fine,” he answered and held out the powder-pink envelope he had in his jacket pocket. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
         “Oh!” Her mouth dropped open and her hand shot up to cover it. She opened the door a bit wider and took the envelope. “Thank you, David. I didn’t expect you to come by.”
         “Is Becca home?”
         “No, uh,” she ran her hand through her disheveled hair. “Mom has her.” David nodded and scuffed his foot on the brick before turning to go. “David?”
         He turned his head but looked at the doorbell instead. “Yeah?”
         “It really was sweet of you.”
         “Yeah. Well, I hope it’s a good day.” He shuffled down the steps and back to his car. The car shuddered and jolted as he pulled off of Miller Street.