The rays of the sun peek through the window disturbing my sleep. It is the morning and so I hurriedly head downstairs to prepare breakfast for two. Two plates, two cups, two sets of silverware. I turn on the stove and cook a hearty morning meal as little footsteps stomping down the stairs decorate the ambiance. His sleepy face shows how much he struggles to wake early. He ambles to the breakfast table on his little feet slowly and sloppily as a yawn widens his slouched face. I place a carton of orange juice so he can serve himself. I fill his plate with scrambled eggs and two slices of bacon. He picks up the fork with his tiny hand and enjoys his food slowly. He thanks me with a smile and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. I serve myself and sit down to eat as I hear him gathering his school supplies. He creeps to the door shouting goodbye as he heads through his usual route to the bus station. As the door closes behind him, tears begin to flow from my eyes. The sweat liquid stains my cheeks as a string of pain overwhelms both my chest and heart. My child died three years ago. I gasp in desperation clenching my chest with a closed fist as I do not know who or what that thing was.