The sun hit my pillow at an angle that sent it straight into my eyes. I blinked in protest, but decided not to fight waking up. I’d slept terribly the night before, and the best I could hope for was some coffee to get me going. I threw back the cotton sheets with more force than was absolutely needed, and dragged on my robe.
The breakfast room was off the back of the kitchen. I padded on bare feet right to the door, thinking sleepily of caffeine and maybe a little orange juice. I released a yawn at the same time I heard voices speaking, low and furtive. There were people in the breakfast room, and from the staccato, angry way they spoke to each other, I could tell they were having some kind of argument.
I crept closer, careful to stay away from the tall glass windows that bordered one side of the kitchen. The breakfast room was entirely encased in glass and looked out over the side of the house. No one ever ate there besides myself. I could count on one hand how many times my father had come to visit me there. He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater, and he usually rose with the sun. Needless to say, I rarely encountered him. What was he doing now, and why did he sound so angry?