Silent Killer On The Breakfast Table

 

Ron

Mrs Anita woke up that morning and just lay on the bed thinking of nothing in particular. She was just glad to be alive, and she made a silent prayer to thank the good Lord for His mercies and comfort. She tried to stand up after a few moments and felt a very sharp pain in her waist. She groaned and massaged her back, but the pain felt like it was inside her spinal cord. She hissed and sat there, waiting for it to subside.

She wondered, why this pain? She had just turned fifty-six, and this was the first time she’d ever felt anything like it. What was wrong? After a few minutes, she tried again when the pain had eased a little, but as soon as she stood, another stab hit her—this time in her knee. She hissed, sat back down on the bed, and massaged her knee with a deep frown. What the hell is wrong this morning? she fumed, completely baffled and confused.

That was when her son walked in.

“Good morning, Mummy. You look tired. What’s wrong with you?”

“No idea, son. I just woke up and started feeling this pain all over my body—like I was beaten with a sledgehammer.”

“Hmmm. Maybe you need to rest a bit. Let me fix breakfast and do the house chores.”

“Thank you, my son,” she said as she lay back down.

“I should get you some drugs too.”

“That would be great, Ron.”

Ron went about tidying the house and preparing breakfast, whistling as he worked. At twenty years old, he was an only son, and his dad was hardly ever around because of rig work, so it was just him and his mum most of the time. Ron was chubby and looked like he was in his thirties—handsome and kind, with a big stomach like a beer drinker.

Mrs Anita stayed in bed until Ron brought her breakfast and some painkillers he’d picked up from the drug mart. She ate very well and even asked for seconds, which made him happy to give. He smiled, knowing she’d probably be okay in a few hours after some rest. When they were done, he excused himself, promised to be back soon, and headed out to see his friend Mark.

Mark was the same age as Ron, but he was all muscle and looked fresh—like someone would easily think Ron was the older brother, even though Mark was actually senior by a month and a half.

They sat talking about getting jobs and starting to support their families when Mark noticed Ron’s mind was elsewhere.

“What’s eating you up, man?”

“It’s just my mum,” Ron replied with a sigh.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“No idea, man. She woke up this morning feeling like she’d been run over by a truck.”

“Ha, that’s rough. What happened to her?”

“Nothing we can pinpoint. She was okay yesterday, and then boom—this stuffy pain today with no warning. I’m just not happy about it.”

As they talked, Ron spotted Mark’s dad doing some weightlifting in the yard.

“Jesus, is that your dad lifting weights at his age?”

Mark turned to look. “Yeah, but you’ve seen him do it before. Why the surprise?”

“He’s pushing seventy if I’m not mistaken, and he’s lifting like he’s forty!”

“Sure, he does it every day. I take after him when he’s done,” Mark said, flexing his muscled frame.

“But how can he do that at his age? I thought old people are weak and need to rest a lot.”

Mark laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him old, or you’ll have a boxing match on your hands.”

“WHAT!” Ron exclaimed. “But how come he’s so strong and looks fine and healthy?”

“Aren’t you aware of our diet plan in this house?” Mark asked.

“No idea, bro. What diet plan?”

“More protein, less carbs,” Mark replied.

“Still no idea what you mean.”

“We eat plenty of protein and cut the carbs. Haven’t you noticed we don’t touch bread, anything wheat, sugary drinks, or sugary food?”

“No, but why would you guys avoid all that?”

“Because bread is a silent killer. With the sugar and all the other junk they add, it fattens your liver and destroys your kidneys. If I’m not mistaken, your mum might be facing its effects right now.”

“I don’t understand,” Ron said with a frown. “Bread is universal food—everybody eats it now and then and they’re okay.”

“Well, not everybody. You may look okay for a while, but at a certain age it catches up—just like with your mum today. You guys love bread a lot, and you wash it down with Diet Coke. Jeez, man, look at your stomach—at twenty years old you look thirty.”

“Hey!” Ron protested.

“You’re always tired. We play ball for five minutes and you’re breathing like a dog in heat.”

“I was tired,” Ron defended himself.

“In just five minutes?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow.

“So what can we do?”

“Cut the carbs completely, load up on protein, and start your day with warm water. Then eat plenty of eggs—every day—before every meal in the morning after the warm water. Do a few push-ups, some sit-ups, take a morning walk when you’re free, let the sun touch you a little. You can’t keep hiding indoors all the time.”

“So you’re telling me bread is low-key trying to kill me?” Ron asked, giving Mark the most skeptical side-eye of all time.

“Straight-up assassin,” Mark said, flexing in his tank top like a TikTok fitness bro. “Cut the bread, cut the junk carbs, eat protein like rent is due, and actually move your body. Give it thirty days and you’ll be crying happy tears in front of the mirror, bro.”

Ron poked his stomach. It jiggled like it was auditioning for a jelly commercial. “So carbs are the enemy?”

“Carbs are why you look five months pregnant,” Mark laughed. “You’re not fat because you love food, man—you’re fat because your liver and pancreas are exhausted. They clocked out and started shoving everything to your gut like, ‘You deal with it.’ That’s why you crash at 3 p.m. and live for the next Chipotle run. Me? I eat one or two solid meals and I’m good. My body and I—we have an understanding.”

Ron sighed. “My mom’s never gonna buy into this.”

“It’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle,” Mark said. “You know how much a hospital bed costs these days? Six figures easy. You wanna pay that because of Texas Toast and Dr Pepper?”

Right on cue, Mr. Markson—Mark’s dad, retired Marine Corps, current walking intimidation—strolled up chewing on beef jerky like it owed him money.

“Ron! My guy!” he barked. “You joining the program or you still planning to carry that spare tire to the grave?”

“Sir, I’m good for now,” Ron mumbled.

Mr. Markson started counting on thick fingers like he was reading a rap sheet:

“Stuff that disappears when you ditch bread:

Acid reflux from hell

Bloat that makes you look inflatable

Gastritis

Pre-diabetes/diabetes

Sky-high cholesterol

Insulin resistance

Joint pain

Fatty liver

That random “I think I’m getting the flu” feeling every month

Lower back pain that screams every time you tie your shoes…”

Ron blinked. “Sir, you’re not a doctor.”

Mr. Markson grinned. “Facebook group called ‘Doctor of the Future.’ Dude drops truth bombs harder than a Jordan Peterson lecture. Changed my whole life.”

Ron got up to leave. Behind him—SMACK!

“Ow! Dad!”

“You think boot camp ended because you’re home? Grab those dumbbells, let’s go!”

Ron drove home in a daze. He sat his mom down on the couch.

“Mom, hear me out—one week. No bread, no pasta, no donuts, no cereal mountains. Just eggs, chicken, fish, veggies, water, and some walks. If nothing changes in seven days, we go right back to bagels and Cinnamon Toast Crunch and pretend this never happened.”

His mom stared at the half-eaten loaf of Wonder Bread on the counter like it had personally betrayed her for forty years.

“One week,” she said finally. “But if I die of sadness, I’m haunting you.”

Day 1: Pure suffering.

Day 3: She hid Oreos in her purse like contraband.

Day 5: Ron came home from a walk and found her in the living room doing TikTok dances, yelling, “My knees don’t sound like Rice Krispies anymore!”

Day 7 hit different.

Ron walked in and froze.

His mom—his sweet, soft, always-had-some-kind-of-ache mom—was full-on dancing to Lizzo in the kitchen, hips moving like she was twenty-five again. She saw him, dropped the spatula, and ran over with tears already streaming.

“Ron! Baby!” she cried, grabbing him in the tightest hug he’d had since middle school. “Everything hurts less. My heartburn? Gone. My knees? Silent! I slept through the night—no getting up to pee six times, no leg cramps, nothing!”

Ron felt his throat tighten. His own jeans were suddenly loose; he’d had to poke two new holes in his belt with a screwdriver.

His mom cupped his face, mascara running. “You gave me my life back. I thought this was just aging—I thought pain was my new normal. You saved me.”

Then, in the greatest mic-drop moment of all time, she marched to the counter, grabbed the last grocery-store loaf of white bread, held it over her head like she was about to spike a football, and screamed:

“THIS BREAD HAS CAUSED ENOUGH CHAOS IN THIS HOUSE!”

She yeeted it straight into the trash can—nothing but net.

From the backyard, the neighbor’s dog barked like he’d just won the lottery.

Ron and his mom collapsed against each other, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe—happy, free, alive.

From that day forward, whenever someone came over and asked for toast with breakfast, Mom would just smile and say:

“Sorry, honey. We don’t do bread in this house anymore. We do miracles.”

And Ron would flex a baby bicep and whisper, “Doctor of the Future… respect.”