Page 98 of The Wrong Proposal

Dad sighs, then smiles as if trying to mask his concern.

“Your health insurance will cover it,” I remind them.

Neither respond.

“You didn’t let your insurance go, did you?”

“We are on a lower level,” Dad admits. “Money was tight. We were healthy. You were doing fine.”

“Oh, Mom.” I inhale a deep, cleansing breath. “Let me pay for your insurance.”

“Penelope, you can’t afford it. You don’t even own your own home,” Mom says with her arms wide as though they are wealthy since they own this little cottage.

“I’ve just finished some work where I’ll be paid well. I can pay for the next year’s insurance.”

Dad places a hand on my shoulder. “That’s lovely, Poppy. But your mother and I agreed years ago we’d never take from you. We knew what it was like to give everything to our parents for the family’s benefit. We don’t want that for you.”

“Dad, listen—”

“Not today, please.” Mom forces a smile. “Eat your pancakes, and let’s enjoy our time together.”

* * *

After lunch,I stack the dishes in the sink. “I’m doing the dishes.” I wave my parents away.

Dad stands and heads to the cupboard. “I’ll get the Scrabble board ready.”

“Can we sit outside in the afternoon sun for a bit?” Mom asks. “I’d like to rest a while.”

“Of course, whatever you want. I’ll serve the pumpkin pie and bring it out to you.” My parents like to rest in the afternoon. Only Mom appears more tired today than usual. Is it the pain getting her down? I lay a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I am, dear. I’m not sleeping well with this hip.” Mom hobbles, grabbing furniture to lean on as she goes.

“You go out with her, Dad.” While waiting for the pie to warm, I wash dishes and stack the plates. Through the door screen, I watch Mom close her eyes. She did most of the food preparation yesterday, and I wish she left it for today so I could have helped her.

Her face lights up when a dog appears and races around the table.

“Huh.” I push open the screen door.

“Noo,” Mom shouts.

Oomph.The dog bounds up, and I stumble back. “Down, boy.” I pet his head. “Whose dog is this?”

Mom laughs when it licks my face. “Meet Riddick, the friendly Retriever.”

“No, his real name is Goldie the Golden Retriever,” Dad says.

Mom laughs again. “His balance is ridiculous. Something gets knocked over and broken with every visit. So, I named him Riddick.”

“Every time?” I’m struggling to keep my balance with the dog on his hind legs and his front paws on my arms. He’s walking, and I’m moving with him. “He’s very strong.”

Dad comes to my rescue, and the dog leaves me to sit beside Mom. “Our neighbors are away, so we’re feeding him. He’s created a gate between our fences.”

“What do you mean created a gate?” The dog trots over to me, and I hold out my hand in warning. “Down, boy.”

“Don’t make him sound like a bad dog. Come here,” she says, patting her thigh. Mom has pepped up with a new lease of energy.

This dog has won Mom over. It surprises me as I was never allowed a dog growing up. We only had cats.

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