“Sarah, there’s something wrong with the rent payment. The landlord called and said it didn’t go through this month. Can you check with Marcus? He handles all that, but I can’t reach him.”
I was still hooked up to a heart monitor, still recovering from surgery that had saved my life, and my father was calling to complain about rent.
“I don’t know anything about that, Dad,” I said, my voice flat. “You’ll have to work it out yourself.”
“Well, can you at least call Marcus for us? You know how he is about answering his phone.”
“No, Dad, I can’t. I’m in the hospital.”
“Oh, still? I thought that was just a one-day thing. What are you in the hospital for?”
The question hit me like a physical blow.
He didn’t even know.
He had forgotten, or more likely, it had never registered, that I had told Mom I needed emergency heart surgery.
“I had heart surgery, Dad. To fix the heart condition that almost took me away from Emma. The one I told Mom about before you went to your concert.”
There was a long pause.
“Oh, right. Well, you sound fine now. So, about the rent—”
I hung up on him.
For the first time in my life, I hung up on my father.
And in that moment, I made a decision.
I was done.
I went home on day six.
Patricia helped me get settled, made sure Emma and I had everything we needed, and only left when I literally pushed her out the door with a check for a week’s worth of care.
“You call me if you need anything,” she said. “And I mean anything. I gave you my personal cell number for a reason.”
Emma was overjoyed to have me home, but she was also remarkably well adjusted considering the circumstances.
Patricia had been that good.
We spent the first day just cuddling on the couch, watching Disney movies, eating ice cream for lunch.
My parents still hadn’t called.
