I made two cups of coffee again this morning. I do it on purpose. It’s a mean thing to do, I know.
The Sunday morning FaceTime calls are a treat.
“Are you drinking coffee today, Dad?”
“Yes, we love our coffee.” Both cups placed in strategic positions. The tension is a thing of beauty.
My children are lovely. All boys. I wish I had a girl. Girls take better care of their parents.
I hear from my boys when their conscience gets the best of them. If I call them, they always sound busy. It’s a burden for them to talk to me, so I just leave them alone.
I’m very capable. I can take care of myself. They know very little of my life anymore. I’ll share a tad bit, and they’ll say I shouldn’t be doing this or tell me what I need to do. I just say OK and laugh to myself.
It’s when they come for a visit that I get my real revenge. It’s the little things, like making two cups of coffee and then seeming a little confused. It’s a fun game.
For a while, they’ll get concerned. They’ll call each other, talk about Dad and how he’s losing it. Then I’ll hear from them or see them often. After a few days, they convince each other I’m OK, and then we’re back to spotty conversation.
Making two cups of coffee — it’s just one of my tricks. It’s one of my favorites. I make those two cups. I don’t explain why. I look a little confused, and they look so concerned.
Nobody ever mentions mother.
Inwardly, I laugh, but it’s almost a sob.