"Well, I'm coming over now," I said.
When I stepped inside, the whole place reeked of seafood, but all I saw on the table was a plate of nuts, some half-cooked oatmeal, and cucumbers.
Dad looked serious, and my brother and his wife wore their usual polite, fixed smiles. Mom walked over and pulled me aside.
"I heard you weren't feeling well and even went to the hospital today. I made some oatmeal for your stomach. You know, rich food can really mess you up. Going to the hospital is such a waste of money-- money you should be saving. Don't worry, Mom will hold onto it for you."
I almost laughed at how absurd it was. A bitter wave of frustration hit me hard. Dora, Alexander's wife, had just taken their cat to the vet for days because it wasn't eating enough. And here I was, apparently not even entitled to see a doctor.
I looked down, took a sip of the undercooked oatmeal, and noticed bits of crab shell under one of the plates. My stomach churned even more.
"I have cancer."
The room went dead silent. I looked up, startled.
It wasn't me who had said it-- it was my mom.