“I’m not an invalid, Greta.” I brush away her arm, frosty persona back in place, sighing heavily as I walk up the concrete path to the very beachy feel waterfront seafood restaurant she showed me in pictures the last few days. She’s been by my side at every opportunity and mothering me like she rescued a wounded duck with only one wing. Apparently, walking is now something I cannot handle alone. Along with the constant cheerleader efforts and pep talks about ‘pulling through.’
“Did you just give me the ice queen routine?” She stops dead in her tracks and slaps her hands to her hips while eyeing me up and down, and I glare her way. “We talked about that, missy. I’m your boss…. Your caregiver. … Your…..”
“Giver of headaches.” I finish
