It’s one of those mother-daughter conversations, “have you had your mammogram?” she asks. “I got the schedule,” I answer, parrying.
“Well, you’re the age I was, you know.”
“No. You were – well, how old was dad?”
We both know we’re talking about how old my father was when he died – 61, mom says. I am surprised – I was sure he was 63. But no. 61. Which means my mother was 59 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Same as me.
I take her point.
I just thought I had a couple more years is all.
Hoist on the petard of faulty math.