Who Ate My Breakfast?

picture is mine

"What have you done with my breakfast?" I yelled at my younger brother, Abdul.

He looked up at me from the sofa he was seating on with wide eyes and his mouth full of food. "I don't understand, what do you mean by that?" he mumbled.

"The food you were supposed to save for me is gone!" I replied, my voice rising in anger.

"I didn't touch it!" Abdul protested, his face turning red.
"I've been busy all morning like you, I haven't had time to eat anything!"

I crossed my arms, unconvinced. "Well, someone sure did, and I'm betting it was you!"

Abdul jumped to his feet. "Bro stop accusing me l. I'm seriously telling you, it wasn't me! I didn't eat your breakfast. Why would I lie?" he insisted, looking offended.

"You're always trying to get out of this one by acting angry!" I retorted.

"Well, I'm not lying this time! And I'm actually standing my ground, I didn't eat your food" Abdul replied. "I didn't eat your food!"

Just then, our mother came into the room, a look of confusion on her face. "For the sake of love, what's going on here? Why can't you guys let me sleep in peace she asked, looking from Abdul to me.

"Abdul ate my breakfast!" I accused, pointing at my brother. "I did not !" Abdul cried, his voice rising in frustration. "It's not true, I swear!"

Our mother raised her hands, as if to calm us both down. "There's no need to argue like this!" she said. "Let's take a deep breath and try to figure this out."

We both took a breath, though I was still fuming inside.

"Okay," our mother said. "Abdul, did you eat your brother's food?"

He shook his head vehemently. "No, I didn't. I swear!"

"Well, someone ate it," our mother reasoned.

As tension filled the room, I could feel my frustration mounting. How could someone have eaten my breakfast without leaving a trace? I shot a glare at Abdul, who returned it with a pleading look. But deep down, I kept reminding myself he ate my food.

Our mother, sensing the escalating conflict, took charge of the situation. With a calm demeanour, she suggested we search the house to uncover any clues. Reluctantly, Abdul and I agreed, each hoping to prove our innocence.

We scoured every room, checking closets, under beds, and even behind furniture. But aside from the usual clutter, we found nothing that could shed light on the mystery. As time dragged on, frustration grew and I started feeling tired. I feared if we'd ever find out who ate my food.

Just when I was about to give up hope, Abdul called out from the back door. "I think I found something!"

Rushing to his side, I saw him pointing at the trash bin. Buried beneath a big heap of shredded paper and food scraps was what remains of my breakfast—a half-eaten sandwich and an empty juice box.

As I stared at the remnants of my breakfast in the trash bin, a surge of frustration swept over me. Despite the evidence, I still couldn't shake the feeling that Abdul was somehow involved. He had always been greedy with food, and his denial seemed too rehearsed.

Just as I was about to confront him again, my phone rang, interrupting the tense atmosphere. It was Dad on the line. "Hey, son," he greeted, his voice echoing through the receiver. "I need you to do me a favour."

"What is it, Dad?" I replied, my curiosity piqued.

"I need you to swing by a logistics company and pick up a debit for me," he explained. "Then, I need you to drop it off at my company downtown."

"Sure thing, Dad," I replied, eager to help out.

But before I could hang up, Dad added, "Oh, and by the way, when I got home from work earlier, I found some food in the microwave. Since I hadn't eaten anything all day, I went ahead and had it. But don't worry, I left some cash under the microwave with a note for whoever it belonged to, so they could get another one."

My heart sank as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. It wasn't Abdul who had eaten my breakfast after all—it was Dad. Feeling a wave of guilt wash over me, I turned to Abdul, who was watching me with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Dad ate it," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I accused you wrongly, Abdul. I'm sorry."

Abdul's expression softened as he nodded in understanding. "It's okay, bro," he said, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "I knew you were just frustrated. Let's go tell Mom and clear everything up."

Relieved to have finally solved the mystery, we made our way to where Mom was waiting, eager to set things right and put an end to the misunderstanding once and for all.