This is something that happens

I made some horrible comment to my brother today about Dad—some careless, bitter remark, veiled in poor humor. And in some ways I wonder if I let some opinion escape.

Dad’s not strong anymore.

Perhaps I’m refusing to accept that he needs continuous care, just as he refuses to ask for it.

Always, with our stubborn pride.

Wondering if fate is etched into our hands, something we do to ourselves, or merely supposed.

This is something that happens.