When mom got home from work, I told her Phil was sick and she rushed up to fuss over him, taking his temperature, offering him medicine—the usual mom stuff. Meanwhile, I talked to Dad about borrowing his lawn mower. “Just until I make enough to buy my own,” I’d said.
He squinted at me over the newspaper in his hands, suspicious. “What’s the money for?” Unfortunately, my father knows me pretty well. I think it has to do with his own past—he’s told me on many occasions that he sees a lot of himself in me.
“Phil.”
He pursed his lips. “Phil?”
“He wants to help his mom,” I shrugged. “I don’t know how else we could do it.”
Something akin to awe flashed across his expression. “You can use it. I was planning on buying a new mower soon anyway.”
Cool. “Thanks,
