"Roni, I don't feel so good," Bridget complained when she slumped down into a dining chair on Friday morning. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy, and she sounded congested. I placed a hand on her forehead and felt she was radiating heat from a fever.
"Go back to bed, Bridgy, no school today," I told her, handing her the box of tissues from the centre of the table. "I'll bring you in some honey tea and toast"
She begins her slow walk back to her bedroom but stops and turns, leaning against the dining room doorway for support, her face full of disappointment.
"Does this mean I can't go out for dinner tonight either?" She sniffles and grabs a few tissues from the box to blow her runny nose.
"I'm afraid so" The poor kid looks like death warmed up, and her only concern is missing out on cele
