My dad called the other day. He’s not a big one for talking on the phone. His is even one of those ancient flip phones that people tossed for the smart ones. Usually it’s my mother who calls and checks in, feeding me the funny anecdotes of my sister’s kids. So when Dad calls I get nervous. It’s a broken pattern.
It’s the same for whenever they call any time after seven at night. It’s past their bedtime. When seven rolls around, they’re tucked snugly in their beds, lights out and everyone snoring contentedly. It’s their pattern.
So, when Mom calls that late I snatch up the phone. “Who died?”
“No one died. Why?”
“Because it’s 9:15. You never call me this late. Is Dad okay?”
“Your dad’s fine. He’s playing Tetris on the bedroom computer. I just wanted to call and see how everyone is doing. You always whine that I call you too early. Now you’re complaining that I’m calling too late. There’s no winning with you.”