Personal Narrative: Tan-Brown Sandwich

I stared down at the perfectly shaped, tan-brown egg teetering on the counter and swallowed hard; I had to crack it. Cupping it in my hand, I sized up the enemy. It was cool to the touch and had some weight to it. Squinting my eyes with determinedness, I held it with both hands, four fingers supporting it and my two thumbs hovering a few centimeters above the shell, poised to administer the fatal blow. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, two hours past the allotted time for a late lunch, and I was home alone, woefully abandoned by my parents who were at some lunch and probably on their second slice of cake. I had been alternating between punching out angry texts to my mom and standing in front of the fridge until goosebumps formed on my arms when I finally reached a conclusion. I would have to make myself a meal.
In the midst of clanging around in the dishware cupboard, I had decided I would be making an egg and cheese sandwich. It was optimal; easy, loaded with protein, and I had seen my mom make one a million times. My
Pressing my lips together, I pushed my thumbs downwards, creating a long, thin crack on the brown surface. In one fluid motion, I pushed the two halves apart and simultaneously flipped my hands downwards to face the pan. The contents of the eggshells settled elegantly on the pan and with a triumphant sizzle, the egg began to cook, sunny side-up.
The egg and cheese I made that day was the first of dozens; admittedly it was the only meal I knew how to cook for a long time, but it was still a meal I knew how to cook- all by myself, with zero adult help! Zero adult help, void from the fact that I still had to rely on my mom to buy the ingredients; although I didn’t consider this at the time. For me, at 12, that egg and cheese was all my own, purely independent work. There was a sense of pride that came with this feeling, and perhaps it was from this moment I associated independence with