I CAN'T BELIEVE you have to work on a Saturday morning.”
John's wife, Nancy, placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him while he sat with their kids at the kitchen table.
“You have to work?” asked John Jr., their eight-year-old son.
“It's not work, J.J.,” explained John. “I have a doctor's appointment.”
“Are you sick, Daddy?” asked three-year-old Emma.
Nancy took her seat at the table between the two kids. She reached out and gave each of their arms a gentle squeeze. “No, Daddy's fine.” She shot John a look.
He didn't need the scolding. He had already regretted his word choice. “It's a work doctor. I'm just getting some extra help.”
“Like a tutor?” asked J.J.
“Yeah, I guess. Like a tutor.”
Nancy frowned. “I just don't understand ...