Cracked Eggs - Magpie Prompt Week 62

Below visual prompt from Tess @ Magpie Tales - To read other contributions this week's click HERE

Courtesy of Tess @ Magpie Tales

Cracked Eggs

‘Your father’s back,’ I hear my mother say.  But I already know this, his anger seeping through the cracks in the door long before he turns the key.  The cups on the dresser rattle as the door slams shut coffin-like. The air in the house is sparing, threatening.  I sit and wait, hoping I might drift into the faded flowery wallpaper.  His eyes speak first, firing. No dinner yet, no plate filled, no place set.  He is not pleased, he never is.  I watch him untie his boots, big strong hands with nails of ingrained dirt and lines that mirror a rugged, ragged face.  I hear the splash and sizzle from the kitchen as the knife cracks the shells, and then the smell of fried eggs.  
We both wait while he eats; him first, always first. Through the corner of my eye, I watch him, his knife upright as the food from the willow patterned plate gets shoved into his mouth.  Then the blind raging anger that has hovered since the moment he turned the key releases itself, spitting out the food he roars.  ‘Bloody woman, can you do nothing right?’ And the plate with fried eggs goes flying through the air.  She says nothing, she never does.  The door slams shut once more and he is gone, leaving us as castoffs in his broken wake.  I sit in silence, in case he might come back, bruised that way only children know.