Chapter 24 023

Laura remembered another sentence her father had said to her many years ago. Maybe Christmas, maybe Thanksgiving.There was a fire in the fireplace, very warm.His eyes looked away when he said that, "You know what I'm worried about?" Whether she was home for vacation that time, whether she was a sophomore or a junior, these details have become blurred, but the feeling is very clear.Nutmeg in the eggnog.The charcoal in the fireplace crackled.But no Christmas tree. Then maybe it's Thanksgiving.It's snowing outside.Did it snow early that year? Laura's mother had a school meeting, and Warren wasn't home, so it was just father and daughter.There wasn't much to talk about, and most of the time they just sat happily, sipping eggnog.

After a moment of silence, my father asked Laura this question: "You know what I'm worried about?" Laura didn't know. "As a father, my fear is that, on our deathbeds, we're going to have to look at the moments in our lives where we got mad at our kids, when we didn't give them love when they needed it, when we were in front of them. The absent-minded or grumpy moments, all those moments when we're angry or impatient." "Dad," said Laura, "you've never been angry, I don't think you've ever yelled." "Oh, there are times," said my father, "that you just forget. Sometimes I ignore you or Warren instead of asking how your day was. Other times I don't want to hear about it. I My biggest fear is that when I get to the end of my life, I have to revisit those moments. They will make us face them again before we go to heaven." He looked at Laura. "I'm sorry, Laura."

"There's nothing to make you feel sorry." "But I'm sorry." "Excuse me? Why?" "Just sorry for the things I should have done, maybe could have done, but didn't." Laura should have said: You're a good dad and you've been doing your best.She should have said that, but she didn't, letting the moment slip into silence, lost in a puff of smoke.