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I’d been in that tractor enough to know that they did.
Likely, he was ignoring them because he’d rather listen to his audiobooks than answer my texts.
But this was important.
Me:
I just ordered you donuts. I even have someone sending them to the field you’re on.
He answered ten seconds later.
Dad:
There better be donuts, or I’m disowning you.
I snorted, then got into my phone and ordered him some donuts. But not before having a note added that said: You’re going to be a grandpa. Congrats!
He sent me a selfie of himself eating the donuts while giving a thumb up.
That was my dad.
The life of the party.
The next call went to my mom, who sounded harried when she answered.
“Sorry, baby, but I’m scrambling to get Daddy some food. I forgot to go to the store yesterday, and I’m trying to decide, will he kill me less if I give him a turkey sandwich? Or should I go with Ramen?” she word-vomited the moment she answered.
I pinched my eyebrows together.
Some things would never change.
And my mom’s scatterbrained self was something she’d battled with for her entire life.
“Don’t worry about getting him any food,” I said. “I just sent him donuts and milk. He’s happy.”
She paused. “Why did you do that?”
I only did that on special occasions, and she knew it.
“Well,” I hesitated, then blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”
She squealed.
It was the sound of an excited pig at dinner time.
“You’re pregnant?” she cried out.
I smiled. “I’m pregnant.”
“When do you go to the doctor? How did you find out? How far along are you?” she questioned rapidly, knowing I wouldn’t keep the secret for longer than necessary. i.e., a half a day.
“Today, we go to the doctor,” I answered. “Quaid is meeting me there.”
She squealed.
Then sobered.
“So, you’re getting married?” she asked.
