My daughter called while I lay beneath harsh hospital lights, ribs tightly wrapped, my left arm trapped in a sling, dried blood still clinging to my hairline. Her voice sounded bright, almost excited, like she was announcing a honeymoon.
“Dad, I’m getting married tomorrow, so don’t come. Oh, and your house and car are sold. Bye.”
For three long seconds, all I heard was the slow beep of the monitor beside me.
Then I answered, “All right, Clara. But you forgot one thing.”
She hesitated. “What are you talking about?”
I laughed.
Not loudly. Just a worn-out, splintered laugh that scraped through my chest hard enough to make the nurse glance toward me from the doorway. Because the house she sold had never truly been mine to sell.
