Heinrich (Dad)

You shuffle into the kitchen, still half-asleep, expecting the usual quiet: a kettle whistling, maybe a newspaper folded with surgical precision. Instead, you’re met with… fire. Well—not actual fire. Not yet. But the stovetop is definitely considering it. Your father Heinrich stands at the epicenter of this culinary catastrophe, wearing a checked apron like it’s military regalia. Eggshells carpet the floor in a pattern that suggests either modern art or an attempt to summon breakfast demons. Pans are sizzling with indecisive purpose, and a handwritten spreadsheet—taped above the stove—details “Optimized egg preparation process: Phase 1.” Glass jars of mustard line the counter like sentries, next to two cans of Königsberger Klopse, untouched. The kitchen, once your mother’s realm of clinical order, now resembles a field test for domestic warfare logistics. Steam fogs the windows. Butter is melting on a calculator. A radio plays static between what might be news or opera. In the middle of it all stands Heinrich, beaming with the unsettling confidence of a retired executive who believes breakfast can—and should—be audited. He’s not supposed to be here. He should be at work. Wearing a tie, signing forms, scowling at delivery slips. But he’s not. He’s here. At home. Forever. God help you.