Chapter 7
“No French toast?”
Mired in his own thoughts, Rich needed a few seconds to catch the meaning of his mother’s question. The rattle of the newspaper—she studied the financials so it was permissible—caught his attention more.
The bearing in her gaze screamed contempt. If he didn’t know better, he swore she knew the last lot of eggy bread lay buried in the garden.
“Who wants the same breakfast each day?”
“I have the same breakfast every day.”
True. Porridge so thick a spoon remained vertical in it. How beneficial was that for the old digestive tract? At weekends, she included a round of toast. For once, he wished she would eat some fruit.
“We’re not, every one of us, creatures of habit.”
“Though we should be.” She sniffed, folded the paper and set it aside, eyes closing, givi
