Sophia: [sighs] [sighs] Hey! You're not even gonna ask what's wrong?
Dorothy: What's wrong, Ma?
Sophia: I got three days to live.
Dorothy: Fine, Ma. I'll scratch the Bengay off the grocery list.
Sophia: I can't believe you're so insensitive.
Dorothy: Ma, you are not dying.
Sophia: I am, Dorothy. I had a dream last night, a death dream. Your father spoke to me.
Dorothy: Spoke to you? How?
Sophia: Do I look like Rich Little? Just listen. I'm sitting in the living room, and the clock strikes 9:00. Then the bell rings. It's your father in his fedora. He always wore a fedora on Saturday. He walks towards me, reaches out his hand and says, "Sophia, you can come now. There's room for you now."
Dorothy: That's it?
Sophia: You want him to show up with Barbara Eden and the college all-American football team? It's a dream, not a Bob Hope special.