Love Isn’t An Omelet

by Amelia Kanan

I just woke up, haven’t even said good morning to myself and walk downstairs into the kitchen to take my vitamins. He’s laying there, where he always is, in his chair in the living room, flipping from one cable news channel to another.



“I made you an omelet.”

“No thank you.”

FIrst of all, he didn’t make “me” an omelet. He made it for himself and didn’t feel like cleaning up the pan. Secondly, I can see it plain as day sitting on the stove, there’s no need for him to state the obvious. And thirdly, even if he did make this omelet for me does he think this makes up for the things he said to me? I don’t even fucking like feta cheese in my omelets.

“It has mushrooms, spinach and feta. It’s really good.”

“No thank you.”

I walk back upstairs to take a shower. I can’t eat for a half hour after I take one of my supplements anyway.

I walk back down with wet hair and a head full of everything I need to do for the day. Should I e-mail my editor and update him on my progress with this story? How am I going to tackle this Green Energy story? Am I over my head on this? I need to interview someone today. I wish that guy with the farm would call me back, I don’t know what to do my story on this week. Oh, I forgot to text Rob, he wanted to ride with me downtown. Crap, LA, I need to hammer down an itinerary so I can let people know. Oh, that reminds me-Steve. He better have written that script already since I fixed all those plot issues. Aww, I should call so and so-I haven’t talked to her in awhile…I feel like I have nothing to say though.

“Honey, did you try the omelet?”

“No, Dad. I didn’t but thank you.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“My stomach has been weird lately, sorry.”

He’s in the kitchen now, washing the dishes, with bleach like his mom did. I just want to eat my apple, with a Tbl spoon of almond butter and drink my coffee without mindless babble so I can get myself ready for my day. Does he understand all the people I have to be nice to today? I’m sick of him being so sensitive. I’m sick of him thinking I’m in a bad mood because of him. I’m sick of him having nothing to do except wonder why I don’t want to eat his fucking omelet.

“You know honey, my stomach has been really bad lately too but this was pretty bland…I mean, it went down really well.”

“Dad, I don’t like feta in my omelets.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your job to know that.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No. It’s not. It’s your job to take care of yourself, your body, your mental state, your health. I can take care of mine. If I need you, I will tell you.”

“Ok. I was just trying to do something nice.”

“Thank you but you’re already letting me live with you for free and paying for all of my expenses. That to me is more than “nice”.”

“Well, honey, I do love you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I picked up my computer (that he bought me), found my phone (that he pays the bill for) and put them in my purse. Then grabbed the keys to the car (he paid for) and left.

Before I walked down the front steps to his house, I turned around and opened the front door.

“I love you too, Dad.”