She Caught Me Two Years Early

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.  

59.

Same as me.

Now.

I take her point.

I just thought I had a couple more years is all.

Hoist on the petard of faulty math.

Sigh.