Scrambled; I like my eggs scrambled, she reiterates herself, carefully watching her mother head upstairs to the kitchen. She is irritated, indignant that her breakfast has been delayed, again. At 3 p.m. she is meeting him for lunch; they have much to discuss about their engagement plans. Today is an important day and everything needs to go right. By now I should already be doing my laundry, she mutters to herself, watching the clock that reads 11. Mrs. Hathaway returns downstairs from a very disordered, messy kitchen, holding a plate of salted scrambled eggs, neatly placed on the right side of the dish, just as her daughter likes it. They are too salty, Elizabeth complains. And where is the bun; you know I always like the bun on the side. Mrs. Hathaway heads back up to the kitchen. She has forgotten, she realizes, that her daughter likes her eggs scrambled and not too salted, that she always eats them with a bun on the side, that she has to have a glass of milk no later than 12 p.m. Elizabeth waits impatiently, tapping her manicured nails on the table. I can’t believe she has forgotten, she mutters again. By the time Mrs. Hathaway returns back with the bun carefully placed on the side, not touching the eggs, Elizabeth has already reached her car, shaking her head, her stomach growling loudly. Mrs. Hathaway stands by her daughter’s empty chair, staring at the dish she had prepared with such delight. As Elizabeth pulls her Mercedes out of the driveway, Mrs. Hathaway sits her self down to eat. Yes, I added a tad too much salt, she says as if she is speaking to Elizabeth.