It’s not really the smell of cooking eggs that I hate.
It’s the nose curdling smell of burning butter.
The smell of an incoming fight as my sister and I struggle to properly fry eggs for my dad’s plate. It sets into the nose, waving disgust throughout the face.
It’s the sneer as he gazes upon broken yolks.
It becomes the increasingly fraught silence as he refuses to eat. Then tears, as my mother stares everywhere but at the glaring reality.