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I look up from the laptop when I hear soft muttering to find Dad slowly limping into the kitchen. His face was red, and even from here, I could see the droplets of sweat beading his forehead. The doctor said he should be using a walker so he could put some of his weight on it, but the mule that he is, refuses to do it because he wasn’t a ‘damn invalid’—his words, not mine.
Leaning back, I cross my arms over my chest, watching him go straight for the fridge. He opens the door, his head disappearing as he holds on to the handle.
He stays like that for a little while, before he finally pulls back, a plastic container in hand.
“What are you up to?”
Dad jumps and drops the container, his head whipping in my direction. “Fucking hell, Miguel! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I shoot him an unamused look. “Seriously?”
Dad waves me off. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, but you apparently don’t need my help.” Getting to my feet, I go to him and grab the container that fell on the floor, glancing at the baked ribs that were left over from dinner last night. “You know you shouldn’t be eating this.”
“Don’t you start too,” he grumbles, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I finally got rid of your mother’s nagging, and now you’re all up in my business.”
“You’re lucky she’s not here to hear you.”
“I love that woman, but she’s driving me bonkers with her worry.” He looks at the container in my hand. “Gimme that.”
I pull it out of his reach. “You know I can’t do that. Your doctor said you should be eating healthy. No unnecessary spices, only soups, vegetables, and cooked lean meat.”
“Might as well shoot me right now,” Dad grumbles. “I wanted to eat potatoes, that’s a vegetable, with the ribs last night, but your mother refused to give them to me. Now, stop telling me what I should do and give me that.”
“I don’t think baked potatoes are what your doctor had in mind when he said you should eat more vegetables.”
“They’re the only vegetable I eat.”
“And that’s why you had a heart attack.”
“Pre-heart attack.”
“The same difference. If you don’t do something, you will actually have a heart attack, and then what will Mom do?”
Dad groans. “This conversation is tiring me.”
Some of the color had drained from his face, but I had a sneaking suspicion that it had more to do with him being exhausted.
Moving closer, I slip my hand under his arm. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
Dad doesn’t try to protest, which is telling in and of itself. Together, we slowly make our way to the living room, where I sit him on his armchair.
“You need me to bring you something?”
Dad looks up, a strained expression on his face. “Those ribs?”
“How about I make you a healthy shake instead? I think I saw some broccoli and kale in the fridge earlier.”
Dad’s face twists in disgust. “You know what? I think I just lost my appetite.”
The door bangs loudly at the back of the house. “Papaw!” Gage yells, the sound of rushing footsteps echoing in the house.
“In here,” Dad calls, looking up toward the door.
Gage rushes inside. “Hey, Uncle Miguel!”
“You should slow down, Gage. You don’t want to fall,” Dad reprimands, but the usual harshness in his voice isn’t there when he talks to his grandson.
