Her oatmeal had grown cold. “Pop,” as she called him, had tried to keep it warm by placing a plate atop the bowl, but the thin walls of the house thwarted his efforts.
She hate, hate, hated oatmeal but wasn’t too young to appreciate this small thing that he did before heading out into the fields.
He worked too hard at the farm and at being both parents to her. They didn’t have much, but they made do.
Maybe tomorrow she would rise before the sun and make breakfast for him.
She was, after all, finally turning ten this year.