"Your dad almost died last night," my mother told me in the same sort of tone as if she was asking me to pick up a loaf of bread for her.
"What? What happened?!?" I whisper-shouted, eyes widened.
"Yeah, he thought he was having a heart attack, but wouldn't let me call an ambulance. It went on for 22 minutes. He said he'd rather die here," she said coolly, as she ushered me toward the door.
"No, wait, I want to say bye to dad real quick," I blustered by up the stairs.
"Nah, you don't have to do that," she yelled up the stairwell.
I hugged him and kissed his prickly, smoky face. I told him that I loved him and gave him another firm squeeze. Then, it dawned on me...
My last words to my dad could have very well been "YOU HAVE ARMS, DON'T YOU?!?" I think the guilt alone would've crushed me if that were the case.
R always says, "Preeeetty*, be nice" when I get irritated or my voice hardens in their direction. I really need to watch it.
*sweet, but embarrassing pet name