“She didn’t ask.”
“Nope.”
“You already took the morning off, didn’t you?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Of course he had.
Richard’s appointment was routine, thankfully.
Afterward, he and Mark stopped for breakfast because Richard wanted eggs and believed cardiologists had a personal vendetta against breakfast food.
Somewhere between the restaurant and home, Richard said, “Your mother and I are lucky you live close. Your sisters have their own lives.”
Mark later told me he almost ignored it.
Almost.
Instead, he said, “I have a life too, Dad.”
Richard waved him off. “You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, Mark was beginning to understand exactly what he meant.
That evening, Richard called again because his printer had stopped working.
Twenty minutes later, Mark drove over and came home just before nine.
I looked up from my book. “Diagnosis?”
He removed his jacket. “Catastrophic paper deficiency.”
“The printer was out of paper?”
