When he delivered the news, it was measured, calm, confident. We didn't really have a chance to ask questions, because he answered them for us as he patiently explained the past, present and predicted future.
It wasn't meant to protect us, I don't think, although it surely must have. A blow is a blow, but this one was cushioned as much as possible. I don't chalk it up to paternal instinct; it's just the way he's always operated. Deliberately. Cautiously. Rationally.
You're just like your mother, he said when I was a girl. I could read the subtext; I knew he meant that this made me his polar opposite. She and I were (and, obviously, still are) irrationally emotional women, prone to unpredictable fits of hysteria. Dangerous creatures.
This morning, however, she was calm, although she didn't have any answers or explanations. But honestly, I couldn't think of any questions. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of hysteria, trying not to fall. Scared out of my mind, literally.
I don't have any idea what to do, say, think. How will I fumble through three weeks without knowing anything? And what will happen after I do?
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