Mike: Look, growing up in my family, we didn't, you know, talk or, you know, express things on birthdays or holidays or... Even when my mom died, I came home from basketball practice one day, and my dad said, "Your mom passed." Then he told me to go do my homework. The next morning, I went to school. We never talked about it again.
Sue: Really? Oh, my gosh, that's horrible.
Mike: It's just the way it was.
Sue: Well, you're not like that, you know. I mean, you're way better than Grandpa. When I try to hug him, he just says, "Oh, you don't want to hug an old man." But you tolerate my hugs all the time.
Mike: Well, he cares about you. He's just not real comfortable saying it. We all do. Care about you.
Sue: I know. How did she die again?
Mike: Lung cancer. She was young, just 42. But the way she used to dance around the house, you'd have thought she was 20. She was always singing, always moving. I can still see her at the kitchen sink doing dishes and humming to herself. When I'd be playing in the kitchen, she'd call me over and scoop some soap suds in her hands and bend down and let me blow the bubbles.
Sue: Aww. I wish I had met her.
Mike: Yeah. Well, you'd have liked her. She was nice.
Sue: She was a teacher, right?
Mike: Mm-hmm. Third grade and then fifth. Once, when she was working as a substitute, she actually taught my class. [Sue gasps] I was sitting there and in walks my mom.
Sue: [laughs] Classic.