It was already dawn when the front door opened. And their father came in. Weary. Exhausted. Pale. He closed the door. Softly. Took his coat off and laid it over the chair. He prepared breakfast for the boys. A cup of hot cocoa and toast with butter. Or jam. Never both. Both was greedy. Wasteful. Selfish. Then he sat and waited for his sons to come downstairs. With their hair brushed, their faces washed, their long shorts and grey socks. Ready for breakfast. Ready for school.
The three brothers rushed noisily down the stairs and sat untidily around the table. Outside drizzled the usual northern wet. They noticed their father. Sitting. Gloomy. Worried. Too calm. So they stopped talking. They stopped laughing. Their morning romps scampered up the stairs as fast as they had come down.
The boys ate their buttered toast and drank their hot chocolate. In silence. Watching. Wondering. Waiting. Then their father lifted his head. Hands on his lap, eyes moist and a voice trained to hide its feelings, he told them that he had something to tell them. The three boys stopped chewing. The youngest let out a nervous giggle, and searched for his brothers’ approval. But they gave none. No one budged.
«You don’t have a mother any more», their father told them.
