Toast

By: submission | July 22, 2026

Author: David M. Herman

Five to eight. I try not to live by the clock, but school administrators, neck-deep in institutional syrup, insist. Result: the kids have to be up and washed and dressed and fed and transported by a specific hour.

Margot, glowing after her morning run, sips her shake while lazily scrolling on her laptop at the table. I wish my commute was to a writing shed in the garden. Still, we agreed. She deserves the opportunity.

My phone buzzes. I check. It’s my manager. I swear under my breath. We really have to leave.

I tighten my tie and ask Margot where George is. Margot points with her chin: the usual. George is seven and obsessed with the toilet. I shout for him to hurry up already.

Charlotte, who at ten is already breaking little boys’ hearts, asks me if she may have the final piece of toast. I nod, but her brother Tom – thirteen – sniggers and grabs the slice.

Charlotte huffs and snatches the toast from her brother. He protests and reaches to retrieve his catch, but Charlotte defiantly licks both sides of the toast.

Tom scowls.

I appeal to him: We don’t have time for this.

Tom narrows his eyes at me.

Unbidden, my face scrunches into an angry frown.

Tom abruptly pushes his chair back and draws a square in the air with his index fingers.
I give Margot a pleading look. Instead of backing me up though, she shakes her head and reaches for the green button on the wall. The screen on the fridge lights up, and announces:

CHECKING FOR VIOLENT CONDUCT…

I shouldn’t, but I look at the clock. 7:59. I’m going to be late. I shout up the stairs at George, as if this might slow down time.

The screen displays the incident from various angles, shifting a few frames backwards and forwards, as the algorithm analyses the data.

I quietly hope the decision will go against Tom. He needs to be taught a lesson.

CHECK IN PROGRESS…

I tap my foot, impatient for technological permission to depart. Back in the day, my dad would have already been outside starting the car.

Upstairs, the toilet flushes. It’s two minutes past eight. I jingle the car keys while we wait.

Tom’s eyes dart uneasily from the screen to Margot and back.

At last, the screen PINGS.

CHECK OVER. VIOLENT CONDUCT CONFIRMED.

‘After review,’ says the voice from the fridge, ‘the final decision is a caution to the male parent for a facial microaggression directed at his son. As this is a third caution, male parent will attend a mandatory emotion regulation seminar. His employer has been notified.’

My phone buzzes: angry face emoji from my manager.

My stomach drops.

Tom gloats, but if I slap him, I’ll be in even bigger trouble. I could get fired. Or worse.

A wailing siren crescendoes outside. Tyres screech. The doorbell rings.

Margot, her face tight, holds out her hand for the car keys.