We enjoyed Christmas morning that year in our new home, and then celebrated it again at my parent’s home. Afterward, we drove to St. Louis, and had a late Christmas with Jess’ family. A New Year’s party followed, and then we came home.

I grew a year older one day but didn’t celebrate the occasion. I signed a contract with Harlequin Romance to produce a three-book series and turned the first book in for publication. Lily attended a private Christian school, while Landon attended his magnet school, which focused on technology.

Then, on one February day, the phone rang.

Surprised to see my mother calling early on a Saturday from her cell phone, I answered.

“Everything okay?”

“Well, not really. There’s been an accident.”

“Everyone alright?”

“Your father was making breakfast, and he dropped an egg,” she said.

She seemed fairly calm, but then again, she was always calm.

“Want me to come clean it up?” I asked.

“I already did. He uhhm. Your father got mad when he dropped it. He went to kick it across the floor. His foot got mixed up in the yolk, and he slipped on the tile. You know how that kitchen floor is when it’s wet.”

My father’s temper was no different than his father’s temper. I inherited it from him, and Alec inherited it from me. Attempting to kick an egg across the kitchen floor seemed par for the course.

“Is he okay?” I asked.

“He’s in the hospital, and he wants you to come get him out. They won’t let him leave.”

“How long’s he been there?”

“Since yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“You know how your father is. He’s stubborn. He didn’t want me to.”

“What, exactly, is wrong with him?”

She sighed. “He’s got a broken knee cap, a broken ankle, and a broken wrist. The knee is on one leg, and the ankle is on the other. He’s going to be in a wheelchair.”

“Fuck,” I shouted. “Which hospital?”

“Susan B. Anthony.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t speed.”

“Be there in fifteen.”

It was a thirty-minute drive at eighty miles an hour, which was the speed that could be driven on the highways in Kansas. In the BMW M5 that replaced my Craigslist SUV, it took fifteen.

In fifteen minutes I parked at the entrance of the hospital and stomped through the doors.

“You can’t park there unless you’re picking up a patient,” the receptionist said.

“I’m picking up David Hildreth,” I said. “Where is he?”

She studied the monitor for a moment, and then looked up. “One forty-six.”

I didn’t need to rely on room numbers to guide me to him, I could hear the sound of his voice when I entered the corridor.

“My Son’s taking me out of this son-of-a-bitch, and I’m going home.”

“Mister Hildreth, you aren’t capable of operating a wheelchair,” a voice said. “Furthermore, your heart cannot handle the stress associated with getting in and out--”

I stepped through the doorway.

“See,” he said. “I told you. He’s here to get me.”

The doctor looked at me. “His kneecap is in four pieces. Once the swelling goes down, we’ll perform the operation to repair it. His ulna is cracked, his collarbone is broken, his wrist is broken, and his ankle is broken. He’s immobile. I’m sorry.”

“What do you want to do, Pop?”

“Well,” he growled. “I didn’t have you drive your ass over here to gawk at me in the goddamned gown. Take me home, Son.”

I looked at the doctor. “Sounds like we’re leaving.”

He shook his head. “I can’t let you take him home.”

“Is it against the law?” I asked.

His pursed lips gave all the response I needed.

“You can’t stop me, then,” I said.

With the assistance of two nurses, I loaded my father in the front seat, and then placed his wheelchair in the trunk. After driving him home, I attempted to carry him up the stairs. At two hundred and thirty pounds – and with five broken bones – he was simply too much for me to carry alone.

I set him at the bottom of the steps.

He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with fear. It was the first time I’d seen him give an outward sign of fearing anything. To me, my father would always be the invincible Marine that raised me.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“Are you cold?”

He coughed a laugh. “Not right now, but I might get that way about midnight, Son. It’s fucking February.”

I was angry, disappointed in myself, and fearful for what the future held. His dry sense of humor extracted a laugh from me, nonetheless.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” I said.

“I’m not going back to the hospital,” he hissed. “Just leave me here.”

“You stubborn prick,” I snapped back. “I’m not leaving you. When they get here, I’ll make them help me carry you in.”

He grinned a fractured smile. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

An hour later, he was sitting in his chair. With his Kindle clutched in his hand, he looked around the room. “I think your work’s done here, Son. Go home to your wife and kids.”

“What are you going to do when you have to go to the bathroom?” I asked.

“I’ll figure something out.”

I looked at my mother.

She shrugged. “This is where he wants to be.”

“I’m sitting right here, Anita. Don’t act like I can’t hear you.” He looked at me. “Go home, Son.”

After some argument, I did just that.

Two days later, the phone rang again.