“The concept of hybridization. It completely changed how we understand molecular structures. Without it, modern chemistry wouldn’t exist as we know it.”
My dull, verbatim response speaks volumes. I have been asked these same questions my whole life, and I can recite them at most any time to anyone who asks.
My father beams, clearly pleased. His counterpart nods, impressed, even though he knows I grew up learning from his idol.
“Exactly! A true pioneer. And that’s what I’ve always loved about chemistry. How one idea, one breakthrough, can change everything. I met him once.”
Diego stops eating.
Unable to believe his ears.
His eyes bug out of his head. Then he demands to hear the story of how it happened. The conversation shifts back and forth between them, allowing me time to eat my breakfast with ease. Despite having listened to every one of my father’s stories, they are nonetheless fascinating and have people in the field usually hanging on every word.
Suddenly, Papà glances at the modest watch.
“Ah, cara. I forgot to mention that I’d be returning home today.”
He drops the bombshell on me that has me sputtering in my coffee. Then turns to Diego, who’s also surprised, without my visceral reaction.
“Sorry, my boy. I cannot attend labs with you, yet I’m confident you’ll do well on your own.”
“Wait, what?” I choke out.
Diego and I trade looks at the unexpected declaration.
“Papà, you’re still healing, and you need help with?—”
He holds up his hand, the same action he’s always done when he no longer wants to hear what someone is saying.
“It’s not up for discussion, Isabella. I was only intending to be away a day or so.”
His weathered hand lowers to pat the edge of the table gently. The hard lines of his aged face soften, but the stubbornness in his eyes tells me I’m already losing this argument.
“I’ve been managing my home and myself long before you were born, and I’ll manage now,” he adds faintly.
“But . . .”
Men, like your father, who have charted their course and created a blueprint when there wasn’t one, tend not to be fond of hanging it all up and being told what to do.
As Diego’s explanation from the other day rolls through my brain, the argument dies on my tongue while my father eats.
The conversation is clearly over.
I feel a different kind of guilt. Earlier in the week, I was worried about him disrupting my life, bringing on a pang of guilt for being selfish and worrying about being a caregiver. Now that he insists on returning home, I feel terrible about running around with Diego the last two days.
If I had been home, would he have decided to stay? I don’t mind the couch. It’s not as lumpy and uncomfortable as I initially thought.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been home much these past few days, Papà. Maybe if I had, you would stay.”
Diego shifts uneasily.
His head ducks to push the pancakes around his plate without eating them. He feels guilty, by the looks of it.
“Nonsense. You have your life, and I have mine.”
His reply to absolve me of my guilt is swift and works on a fraction of it.
“Besides, tomorrow is Monday, and you know what happens on Mondays.”
