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“Have I ever missed our monthly family meal?” The answer is no. It’s a reminder that she knows I’ll make it; she just enjoys poking me.
“Will you actually stay through dessert?” Okay, she has me there. I love my parents, am grateful they’re mine, but my brush with death, the remission that followed, and my second bout with both, shook me.
Understandably so. Who wouldn’t be rattled? It was a sign, at least to me, that I needed to make something of myself. That I’d been given a second chance and I wanted to prove that I was worthy of it.
I’d set about conquering the business world, wanting to provide for my parents in the only way I could. It took a while,but eventually, I was able to afford to pay off their house, the second mortgage they’d taken on to help cover the portions of my treatments insurance wouldn’t, and give them enough in the bank that, should they choose, they could retire.
In addition to that, I created a foundation that would handle the financial aspect that stopped too many from being able to afford the medical help they desperately needed.
People shouldn’t have to choose between food and health care.
Thankfully, that wasn’t a decision my dad and mom had to make, though I know, without it needing to be said, that they would’ve gone without to provide for me.
Again, not something that should be up for debate.
Not wanting this to be about me, instead wanting the focus on those it’s being done for, the foundation was created with numerous layers in order to protect my identity.
My parents know, though. There was no way I was keeping something like that from them. Not when their selflessness gave me the idea for it.
However, to be able to continue funneling money into this charity, I need to work. My mom claims I do that too much, but it’s not as if I have a spouse I’m losing time with.
I’m still open to the possibility of love, still yearn for a wife and kids. I just haven’t found the woman I want them with.
Cue my mom’s favorite chant – ‘You can’t find her if you aren’t looking.’
There is that.
If I’m not in the office, I’m at home.
And, despite one of my neighbor’s numerous attempts to let me know she’s interested, I am not.
Mom clears her throat, her attempt to bring me back to her interrogation, somehow knowing my mind has wandered off.
“Depends,” I say, glad she can’t see my smirk.
“On what?” She asks suspiciously.
“On what dessert is.”
–––
Mom made lemon bars, knowing I can’t resist them. She fights dirty and I respect that. I can also match it. I made her send me a picture of them, with dad in it so I’d know they were at the house and not taken from the internet, as proof.
She wasn’t offended.
She was proud.
My dad, too, as he claimed I got my smarts, and sarcasm, from him.
Mom was having none of it, though, and began to list examples of why she knows it’s from her.
The obvious love they have for each other is why I’m still single. If I can’t have that, then I’d rather be alone. I won’t settle for less.
After we exchange hugs, there is no other option but to be affectionate in this home, Mom thrusts a bag at me. Peeking in because I don’t do well with surprises, I grin at the container of lemon bars. “I made a second batch for my favorite boy.”
“Hey!” Dad pouts.
“You’re my favoriteman,” she assures him, unruffling his feathers.
