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“Yeah. But that’s because she’s sleeping with Prince Valium. You want some breakfast?”
Ant looked at the spread her dad was putting together. It was generous, no doubt about that. There was bacon and eggs and white toast and juice and coffee, and there was a lot of it. But it was all pretty low quality. All low rent, bargain grocery, super sale specials.
“How can you eat this stuff?”
“What?” he asked, taking offense. “What’s wrong with it?”
She felt bad. Ant understood that some people just didn’t look at food the way she did. “Nothing dad. It’s all good. I’m just not hungry yet. I will take some coffee though.”
He smiled and patted the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She sat and he poured her a cup of Folger’s finest from the Mr Coffee they’d had on the kitchen counter for as long as she could remember. The pot permanently scorched from decades of use. It was hot and brown, but that was about the only good thing she could say about it.
Ant put as much milk and sugar into the cup as it would hold and took a sip. Her dad was looking at her expectantly .
“Mmmm…,” she said, faking a close lipped smile. “Mountain grown.”
Cap seemed to like that. He was providing for his daughter, his family, and that was really the only thing he cared about. Whether it was a roof over their heads or a warm cup of coffee, that was job one for him. He turned his attention back to the eggs frying on the stove.
“Dad,” she said, to the back of his head. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure honey.”
He didn’t turn around. He was busy putting a plate together for her despite what she said. When he was done he dropped the breakfast in front of her, turned off the stove and settled his large frame into the chair next to her.
“What’s up?”
She put both hands on the coffee cup. Taking comfort in its heat, its warmth. Then she looked up at him and just went for it.
“I hate law school.”
“So,” said Cap, not missing a beat.
“What do you mean so?”
“I mean so. So what? Most people don’t like what they do for a living. You think I like running the restaurant? You think I like working sixteen hours a day? On my feet? Plunging the bathrooms? Cleaning the grease trap? Hauling out the garbage? Dealing with all those idiot customers? I hate it. But you do what you gotta do. You do what you gotta do to provide for your family.”
“I’m quitting,” she said, pressing forward.
“Oh no you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “No. You’re not,” he said sternly.
“Don’t you care that I’m not happy?”
“No. I don’t. I care that you become successful. I care that you can take care of yourself financially long after I’m gone. That’s what I care about.”
“I want to open a restaurant.”
“A restaurant? Are you out of your mind. Why? Because you watch tv? You wanna be the next Food Network Star?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I love food.”
“You love food? Great!” He shoved the plate of breakfast at her. “Here. Eat.”
