Of course, I was delighted my daughters visited me in the hospital. They arrived late, outside visiting hours, claiming they were swamped. Thankfully, the nurse let me sit in the corridor to avoid upsetting other patients.
“We don't have anything left in the house,” my eldest daughter grumbled, “and Dad won't let me go shopping.” My jaw dropped in shock, and I mumbled that it would be fine. “We have to empty his freezer completely first, and there's no more Coke,” she continued. I pulled my bathrobe tight against the chilly hallway draft. Her sister sat quietly, then pulled a plastic bag from her purse. “Here, Mom,” she said, “something for you.” Inside were mini Mars and Snickers bars.
“That's sweet,” I replied, “but I can't eat them yet, and I'm not in the mood.” “Can I have one?” she asked eagerly. I nodded, and she popped two into her mouth at once. “I think you better go,” I said, fighting the urge to leap from my freshly stitched skin. “Well, that's great… that's why we came all this way,” my eldest snorted. I stared at her, stunned.
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“New…!” I exclaimed. “I hoped you'd come for something else—like missing me beyond the groceries, or asking how I'm doing. I had surgery yesterday!” I looked at them; they stared at the floor. “I'll be staying longer since I'm not recovering well yet. So, simmer down and accept your fate!” “And you still have my car,” I told my 21-year-old, “so no complaints!” She started to retort but shut up when I stood resolutely.
“As for your father, he's managing fine—doing laundry, cooking, visiting without a word of complaint.”
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“Mama's right,” my 17-year-old said timidly, though her sister didn't appreciate it.
As I shuffled back to my ward, I waved goodbye. Exhausted, I reconnected my IV and climbed into bed. “Were those your daughters?” my neighbor across the way asked.
I nodded. “Nice girls; you must miss them.” “Nice? Selfish dragons!” I thought, tears welling up. Where did we go wrong? My husband called soon after; I dried my eyes. He was furious when I recounted it. “Are they okay now? I told them not to bother you. We're fine!”
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A few days later, I returned home to open arms and welcome-home flowers. “Feeling better, Mommy?” my youngest asked caringly. Kitchen sounds drew me; my husband smiled faintly. “She's cooking for us,” he said. “Time to change course, El; it's not too late.” Relieved to be home, I unpacked my Christmas package—lovely treats inside, and at the bottom, an opened pack of mini Mars and Snickers.
