“Hello, hello,” I said impatiently into the phone. I heard cries and sobs. I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the caller ID. It was my mom. My heart pounded, and my breath quickened as I realized those heart-wrenching sounds were coming from her.

I screamed into the phone, “Mom, I can’t understand you. Calm down.” My dread grew as her voice, punctuated with sobs, came across the line. “Your dad… the doctor just called.” I was frantic as she spoke. I thought she was going to tell me my dad was dead. Her crying made it difficult to understand her words.

“Mom, what? I can’t understand you.” My voice sharpened, trying to snap her out of it. “What’s wrong?” I glanced at my husband. He looked at me, the wrinkles around his eyes forming a spiderweb as he narrowed them, his eyebrows raised, silently asking what was going on. I shrugged my shoulders.

Finally, Mom’s voice broke through. “Your dad has cancer.”

I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t offer her any comfort. My voice locked. I tried to speak, but no sound came out. Tears inched down my face. It seemed like an eternity before I could respond. Her cries created a background noise of chaos in my mind.

“Mom, what did the doctor say? Did he give a timeframe? Did he say what stage the cancer was in?” My questions shot like bullets from a six-shooter in a standoff. My mom didn’t have the answers. She couldn’t talk. Reluctantly, I disconnected the call.

Duty dictated my next steps. I told my husband, then called my children. Automatically, I continued my work. My mind searched for the earliest memory I had of my dad, but I found nothing. He had been there when I was a child. I knew because I remembered the discipline. I remembered family dinners at the supper table. I remembered long rides to church. I remembered being grounded a lot, mostly for grades that were below B’s. I remembered sitting on the opposite side of the back seat from him in the car so he couldn’t swat me. I remembered his stern looks from the platform at church when I was talking, followed by the dread of waiting to be reprimanded on the way home. But mostly, I didn’t remember.

The floorboard creaked. I called out, “I’m awake,” not wanting my mom to turn on the light before my eyes adjusted.

“Okay, time to get up and get ready for school,” she said.

I lay in bed a few seconds longer, listening as the car started. My bedroom was right next to the carport, so I heard the car backing out, the gravel crunching beneath the tires, and then silence. I knew my dad had left for work. It was time to get up.

Mom usually fixed oatmeal and toast for breakfast. Breakfast varied little. During the cold months, we had oatmeal. When summer came, we had Corn Flakes. Once in a while, like that day, we had cinnamon toast. Mom’s cinnamon toast was good. She placed white bread in the toaster. Once it popped out, she buttered it quickly, then sprinkled a mix of cinnamon and sugar over the melting butter. She always fixed us two pieces.

After school, my mom made us sit at the kitchen table to do our homework while she cooked supper. If we finished our homework, we could go outside and play. Mom didn’t serve supper until Dad got home. Once he arrived, playtime was over, and we all sat down at the table to eat. He went straight to the kitchen sink, washing his hands and arms up to his elbows, scrubbing away the errant grease from the semis he had worked on during the day.

After washing, he sat at the kitchen table. We all had our own places. Dad sat at the head, my sister at the opposite end, and Mom and I on the sides. I didn’t like it when Dad fixed my plate. He piled on too much food, and we were supposed to eat everything on our plate—whether we liked it or not.

“Eat everything on your plate before you get up,” he said.

I always wondered if finishing early meant I could leave the table. But I never did—there was too much food. Instead, I waited until he left so Mom could scrape off the extra. It was our secret.

After supper, Dad watched television in the living room while my sister and I took our baths. Once we were done, we went into the living room to tell Dad goodnight. I didn’t remember kissing him goodnight, just saying the words. His eyes never left the television as he responded.

When I was sixteen, Dad finally let me use the riding lawn mower. I felt so grown-up, cruising across the yard, the scent of fresh-cut grass thick in the air. The only problem? I wasn’t heavy enough, and every time I hit a hole, the mower would stop. No matter how much I wiggled, rocked, or bounced in the seat, it wouldn’t budge. Eventually, Dad would come out, shake his head, and push me forward so I could keep going.

The summer before my senior year, we moved to DeQueen, Arkansas. Unlike our old home, snow was rare, and we hadn’t seen a good snowfall since moving. That night, my sisters and I went to bed buzzing with excitement, hoping the weatherman’s snow prediction would come true, and for once, he didn’t fail us. I was still warm in bed when Dad yanked off my covers and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Before I could protest, he carried me outside and dumped me straight into the snow. I shrieked, the cold jolting against my skin. He just laughed, standing over me with that playful, mischievous grin. It was all in fun, but I never became a fan of being thrown into the snow!

Before we moved, weekends were different. Dad didn’t go to work, and we didn’t have school. We wanted to sleep late, but that was never allowed.

“Rise and shine,” he said, flipping on the overhead light.

I burrowed into the covers, shielding my eyes. He started singing, “Time to get up in the morning…” as he yanked the blankets off the bed. Reluctantly, I mumbled, “Okay, I’m coming.”

Saturday mornings varied by season. In winter, we worked on the woodpile. In summer, we tended the garden. I wasn’t a fan of either. That day was wood-chopping day. Dad warmed up the truck, and we headed to Hobbs Hill, where his childhood home stood and where we always chopped wood.

Dad chopped, and halfway through the morning, he shed his jacket. We saw his big muscles, and sometimes he flexed them for us. Neither my sister nor I had muscles.

“That’s because I chop the wood, and you only stack it,” Dad said.

Afterward, we drove home and unloaded the truck. Then, we had free time. Dad worked around the house while my sister and I played, rode bikes, or read until dark. Supper was late on Saturdays, but it was the same as every other night.

I hoped Mom fixed my plate.

Maybe I did remember—just not in the way I expected.

Originally written 2015. Revised 2025