As we sat down to breakfast on the first morning of my parents visit to celebrate the inauguration of our next president, Marcel directed the discussion. Specifically, she directed everyone to tell a story.
She was first and, not surprisingly, her story was all about her.
My wife’s story was next. Her story wasn’t about Marcel. I could tell from Marcel’s facial expression that that wasn’t what was wanted so, when my turn came, I made up a beautiful story about my wonderful daughter.
My father was after me. He could also tell that he was supposed to talk about Marcel. He couldn’t quite bring himself to full complaince with the unsaid directive, though, so he started a satirical tale about my oldest child.
“Once upon a time there was camera…”
Marcel knew what was up, though, and immdiately cut him off with a curt, “Next!”
My mother, however, had no intention of letting down one of hers.
“Once upon a time, there was this beautiful grand-daughter…”
Marcel, not needing explicit explanation that the grand-daughter being described was her and not one of the two other grand-daughters, beamed like the morning sun!
