We’d go to sleep, drunk and bickering, over and over again. I’d wake up first, anxiety fueled by the night prior’s duel, over and over again. I’d seek action, activity, anything to funnel my nervous energy into until he funneled his into open lids. I’d tip toe out of the room, out of the house. I’d dash to the store, sprinting down the street, pausing only to look both ways to cross the street, and scramble to find eggs, or flour, or fruit. I’d quietly whisk, dip, and flip a French Toast breakfast in bed. He’d awake without a care in the world.