“DAD. YOU MADE OUR HYGIENIST FEEL GUILTY.”
“Huh? Whatchyou talkin?”
“Our hygienist. Wracked with guilt. And she took it out on my mouth.” I point at my mouth for emphasis.
“Why so? What’d I do?”
“You were there right before Thanksgiving and she told me all about how Uncle Bill and Aunt Mary were coming into town…”
“And she wasn’t going to pick them up from the airport.” He grins.
“Yes. You told her it was about respect.” I poke his chest for emphasis.
He asks me to tell the entire story, and my father’s smile grows wider and wider as I do.

By the end, we’re both laughing at the poor, sweet woman who battled 85 construction traffic in Atlanta the week of Thanksgiving just because Pasco laid an Italian guilt trip on her poor little soul.
“Well,” he shrugs,”It is about respect.”

The scariest part? I think I sort of agree with him.

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