Winners Don't Have Bad Days (Watty 2020 Winner, Romance)

17. #PastSins, December 2017

"Michael?" His mother's voice insisted on continuing their candid conversation.

He hated the idea, so he took a leaf from Don's book and got up. Dull ache that enveloped his foot all the way to the ankle, reminded him about his perfect excuse. "I'm going to the front desk to sign up for physiotherapy tomorrow. Chad said it fills up fast."

"Sit down," his mother commanded softly. "You don't want to talk about this marvelous Daya. Very well. Let's talk about something else."

Reality split into two planes of existence.

In one of them Mike froze thinking, this is a bad idea, a patently bad idea, then made a lurching run out of the doors.

In the second one, he dropped into a (surprisingly not bamboo) chair like a trained lab retriever. He remembered his earlier intent to have a heart-to-heart talk... now he was not so sure he wanted it. It implied a give and take, and he wasn't prepared to bare his soul just yet.

"Michael, I am worried. You're repeating the same mistake I had made with Lloyd. I loved him too much."

He startled. "Really. You loved father too much."

She called the waiter to refill her wineglass.

While the red liquid splashed against the crystal walls, Mike struggled to remain silent. Accusations crowded his chest. Finally, when he had her attention again, it exploded out of him.

"If you did not nag him for twenty years to get into shape, he might still be alive."

Then he would not have found dad on the floor, ashen. Would not have ridden in an ambulance watching the electronic dials and trying to guess what they meant. Would not have prayed for a miracle for thirty-eight hours, until his father passed away without regaining consciousness.

He stared at the empty glass in his hand. A bit of the green goo still clung to the bottom, but he drained most of it. He could still taste it on his lips, but his throat remained parched.

"Your Hamletian act is misplaced, my darling." She drank, then looked back at him.

"The doctor told me that an abrupt change in lifestyle, that late in life, might have contributed to his stroke," Mike said listlessly.

"I divorced Lloyd years ago. His obsession with running marathons had nothing to do with me."

A blush raised in her cheeks, hot enough to be evident through the layer of make-up. It made her look like an old woman.

"Even when we were still married, all I wanted was for him to cut down on greasy food he gorged on during the all-nighters. Any decent woman would do the same if she doesn't want to be a widow at forty."

"And look how well that worked out!" he said, before cutting himself off. They were starting to circle in their argument like two teens on a gaming forum.

"Don't shift the responsibility for your father's stupidity on me."

"I'm sorry." There was nothing to be gained by saying anything else. Thinking was more fruitful. The lady doth protest too much...

The problem was that he had no way of discovering if she had intentionally rubbed his dad's nose in her ageless appearance at that charity event or not. All Mike knew was that after they had run into each-other after years of careful avoidance, his workaholic dad had added a fitness regimen worthy of an Olympian to his already overloaded schedule.

Perhaps she had stumbled on a trigger word that got to him or her needling accumulated over the years. Perhaps seeing her was enough of a straw to break the camel's back.