My mother said, “I’ll just die.” “No, I will,” my father said. “Why do you get to die?” “Because I did all the work!” From the passenger seat, my mother must have considered his words. In that second in the car, something closed inside her, and her face softened. My mother opened the door until the light from outside filled the car. “You did all the work?” she asked calmly. “Then what am I?” Death must have seemed more approachable than her husband. My father said, “Don’t joke around—” Suddenly, she jumped out.
