She made breakfast of sausage, toast and eggs, sunny-side up. With a smile that reflected my shattered perception, I scarfed the food down. It was a pitiful apology. The toast was burnt; the sausage cold and the eggs were runny. It was a meal put together by someone that knew they could do no wrong. I ate every crumb in a false show of good faith. You see, breakfast comes every morning with or without our participation. The tears on my heart, however, are only made with her designation