one - the first signs
i wish it would have never happened in the first place; i wish she could have lived a normal life.
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"Delilah, don't slurp your milk— no, Callie, use a fork— Delilah, stop slurping— Callie, just— Brendon, help me out here, would you?" Ana stresses in my general direction. Of course, being the extremely involved father I was born and raised to be, I answer her request with a simple nod of the head, followed by the monotonous comment, "Delilah can do what she wants. It's her dinner, after all."
Ana glares at me with an intensity only a mother can muster, before curtly turning her head back to the two girls to her right and continuing to snap at him for their "improper dinner etiquette." My eyes slowly shift over to the right, first meeting Delilah's icy, periwinkle eyes and next Callie's jade green ones, and in an attempt to make them both laugh, I stick my tongue out of my mouth as far as I can and cross my chocolate-brown eyes, maintaining that face until the striking sound of giggling children meets my ears. Those small giggles slowly but steadily morph into a series of uncontrollable laughs and snorts, making me smile and laugh along with them as well. Once the Lester girls start laughing, they don't stop; and, adding onto the madness, their laugh is arguably the most contagious laugh ever known to man. Soon, six of the eight of us in our tiny booth are laughing uncontrollably with enormous smiles stitched across our faces. My daughters Delilah and Callie, my wife Ana, and I are on one side of the booth, whereas on the other side of the booth seats my parents and my wife's parents. I'm lucky enough to have parents that will at least be able to joke around and have fun, but Ana unfortunately was not as lucky. Her stiff, unfeeling parents sit rigidly in their seats, clearly embarrassed at the behavior of our table. Sometimes, I almost feel bad for them for having to put up with our constant "embarrassments," but, a simple glance at their tightly-wound faces and I don't feel bad in the least. Not to mention the fact that we're having fun as a family— I wouldn't ever go as far as to label these sorts of situations as embarrassments.
Our table's giggling slowly starts to cease after a few agitated glares from Eddie and Francesca, and we all look at each other awkwardly before Ana jumps in and saves us with the clearing of her throat, followed by another quick mention of how proud we are of Delilah for her poem. "Oh, yes! Eddie and I are very proud indeed, isn't that right, Eddie?"
Eddie looks around at all of us, his eyes slightly wider than they should be due his bewilderment of the sudden and unexpected questioning, before quickly nodding his head yes and murmuring something inaudible to us. He falls silent for the rest of the meal, having no longing for any form of opinion in any matter.
My own parents look at me questioningly, for they have never met Ana's parents in the course of the twelve years we've known each other and the ten years we've been married. This is mainly due to our fears of their possible disapprovals, but also partly because we seldom come into contact with Ana's parents. They live so far away that we only see them two or three times a year, at most. I slightly nod my head forward, silently apologizing to them for not giving any sort of forewarning of the Howell couple's rigidity. Both my mother and father miraculously seem to understand, for they give me general reassuring smiles and proceed to finish eating their individual meals.
I quickly take an affectionate glance towards the eldest of my two daughters, a huge, goofy grin plastered onto my cheery face, but the agonizing expression displayed on hers causes my smile to instantly drop. Delilah's dark-chocolate eyebrows are furrowed into some degree of concern, and her periwinkle eyes appear to be almost glued to the white napkin in her lap, where her hands lay. Her posture, which is almost always guaranteed to remain straight as a log, is bent over in an unnatural and almost peculiar way, puzzling me in the slightest. I catch a glimpse of her hands carefully placed in her lap, only to realize that she's rubbing her forefinger and thumb together— which can only mean the worst of situations.
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#JustWriteIt - The Bronchiole Syndrome ✅
Ficção Geral"I just don't want to lose her, Brendon." God, help me keep this promise. - Set in present time, "The Bronchiole Syndrome" focuses on a man who's daughter is diagnosed with a deadly syndrome commonly called The Bronchiole Syndrome that could quite...
