The other day Weston was out tinkering around outside probably trying to decide how many possible ways he could clear the driveway from all of the snow when he suddenly came in with a pained expression on his face. Now, when I say pained, I mean his face was contorted to portray as much agony as humanly possible. Not only that, he was limping to one side and holding his back.
I looked at him, and asked him if something was the matter.
He told me that he had fallen down.
I stared at him trying to muster up as much sympathy as possible and told him I was sorry. Then I went back to reading my book.
I know as I write this that I sound extremely callused, and that may be true. But, that is probably true for two reasons: One, growing up (I know, it's the childhood syndrome) I was taught that if something bad happened, you just tough it up and move on. The second reason is that Weston has been known to milk any injury to the extreme to extract any amount of sympathy for him. So, I try. I really do. But, sometimes, I'm just not in the mood.
Well, anyway, the next day we were in our bedroom and he was changing his shirt. As he lifted his shirt up to remove it, there branding his back very boldly was one of the ugliest bruises I had ever seen. I gasped loudly and cried, "what happened?!"
He looked at me dumbly and then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I stammered, trying desperately to still feel justified.
The dumb stare continued.
Feeling like the worst wife in the world, I stood up and gave him a hug. However, I did note the exaggerated wince that he made even though I only touched his shoulders.
I don't think we'll ever learn.
God is Sometimes a Fourth-Watch God
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