Thief

 My father accused me of being a thief. Actually, he accused my husband, but after being married for almost 27 years (whoa), it’s almost the same thing (not legally, I know, but for this purpose of this blog, it is). Especially since he called me, and not my husband. 

I’m almost 52 years old, and it’s like the man doesn’t know me. At all.

 

I mean, come on. I’m his daughter. His only daughter. His only child, for that matter. So, it’s not like he mistook me for his other child, the one he’s ashamed of. He doesn’t have one of those (that I know of). As I’ve said to him multiple times, there was no way they could have done better than me, so they stopped at one. 

 

He should know he taught me better than to steal something. And if I were going to steal something, does he really think I’d waste my energy and time and freedom for batteries? I’d go for something way more expensive, like jewelry or money or chocolate. Does he not remember taking me shopping? Does he not remember complaining about my expensive taste (and then buying it for me anyway)? 

 

Now, why does he need batteries? I probably don’t want to know. He says it’s for their wall clock. I’m going along with that, because when a man who’s married to my mom for more than 50 years, and who does everything with her like a matching pair of socks, claims to need batteries, those of us who are related to him really don’t want to ask too many questions. Covering my eyes and my ears and singing very loudly to drown out his protestations.

 

Oh, and about that only child thing? In the future, he might want to consider very carefully what he accuses me of doing. Because as his only child, I’m in charge of his future nursing home. Just saying.

 

***This blog has been thoroughly vetted by my dad prior to publishing. In addition to teaching me not to steal, he’s also responsible for my sense of humor. Lucky him.***