It was a quiet morning on the Upper East Side, not unlike most other mornings. Rocco, Lourdes, David, and Mercy were sitting down for a hearty breakfast of curds and whey while Lupita brought them cups of Earl Grey. Upstairs, there was a frightful rumbling, the sound of glass breaking, large objects shifting, all punctuated by shrill screams and the errant quake. This was a very typical morning in Casa Ciccone. The children had grown accustomed to their mother's morning habits. Lupita didn't bat an eye but went through the breakfast rituals like clockwork. She had learned not to ask questions. Especially after what happened to Rosalita and Úrsula before her. But finally after what sounded like tectonic plates colliding, their mother arrived downstairs. Madonna opened her arms and then, in a decidedly British accent, she blithely crowed, "Good morning little ones!"

And in practiced unison, the chorus of children all chimed, "Good morning mummy dearest!" But then, one of them defected. Yes, it was little Mercy James who had all the gall a person trained to forget her parents -- like an adopted puppy -- could have on such a morning. She asked, "Mummy, where are we vacationing next?" Lasers shot out of her dear mother's eyes as she hissed, "Auschwitz! Because you brats don't love me! Nobody loves me! Nobody appreciates all the hard work I do for this family!"

The children sat stone-like, frozen. Fearing for their lives. Lupita quietly made her way back to the kitchen to prepare the stress flan while Madonna flailed and thrashed. When the tempest finally sounded like it had subsided, Lupita thought, "Ay dios mío!" in regards to the broken flatware she'd have to sweep up. At this point, Madonna sublimated her rage by devouring a plate of flan. If they could speak, the walls of this house, as if bored by how frequently such a scene plays out, would drolly remark, "She wants her children to appreciate how lucky they are and to learn about mistakes made in the past."

Meanwhile the children, the poor children, spent the rest of their mornings, as they did with other swaths of spare time, trying to unsew the buttons from their eyes and recall their past lives.