She scrambles his eggs, just how he likes them. Still a little wet, soft, buttery. The toast pops and she lays it on the blue-patterned, china plate. One of her grandma’s, slightly chipped by his over-zealous stacking, she thinks. She touches the imperfection, enjoys the smooth ridge. Balancing the eggs on the toast, she wipes a stray splodge of yolk from the plate. It looks like a restaurant breakfast. That makes her giggle. Only the best for him. 

The radio is tuned to Heart FM, humming out old classic love songs, perfect for a Sunday morning. She thinks of him still sleeping upstairs, making the most of his lie-in after a busy week, his chest rising and falling softly under the cotton sheets. There’s a towel warming for him on the bathroom rack. She left it there after showering quietly.

She pours his coffee over gently heated milk, it mingles into the perfect creamy whip. A half teaspoon of sugar to add a touch of sweetness. Only on the weekends. He is watching his weight, though he doesn’t need to. 

The oven pings. The smell of rosemary — freshly picked and sprinkled over mushrooms and tomatoes —freshens the air, the steam from the oven giving her a glow. She adds the veggies to his plate and sighs, wiping her hands on her flowery apron. 

“Breakfast’s ready,” she calls gently. 

She does this every Sunday, then sits down to eat alone when no one calls back.