Page 7 of Cakes for the Grump

He doesn’t answer my question. But what he says tilts my world.

“I appreciate you.”

No one speaks after that. I’m not sure I can.

For my whole childhood, my dad has overworked himself. He has driven long hours on the bus and then woken up to drive the bus again. He needed us to survive after my mom died. Financial support was his love language. With the emotional constitution of a stone, he spoke through gestures: a pat on the head, the brush of a hug, how he always pretended not to be hungry when we didn’t have much food.

Then the drinking started and kept going, and funny enough, made him able to express himself.

He would say things like:

You are good.

Be good.

Be happy.

Stay happy.

I’m happy you are happy.

But, this?—

I appreciate you.

Three words and I’ve no idea how to handle them. All I can think is,he needs me. He needs me. He needs me. He needs me.

Our roles have officially reversed. I’m the parent now.We’re not pretending and ignoring the fact that Uncle and I have silently been his caretakers for a while now.

Now, my dad sees it.

He appreciates me.

I’m close to crying again, but I won’t let myself fall apart.

There is noise again as Uncle is back on the line.

“We can’t talk much,” he explains. “The visits are limited because they want him to focus on his inner meditation, but let me tell you, Rita—my brother has not looked better. I wish you could see it, but Iknowyou have to be in Barcelona. That’s why I asked the coordinator to email you updates as regularly as they can.”

Is it true? Can I let myself hope? Has my dad accepted he is an alcoholic who needs professional help to manage his disease?“I appreciate it, Uncle.”

“Now, tell me. What about your news?”

“Oh. I’m actually asking for afriend. Do you still have contacts in the tech industry in Mumbai? Remember you told me you did, a long time ago?”

“I’m not sure they’ll remember me again.”

“Any other job possibilities?”

“Rita, what is going on? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine!” My eyes close, then open. “I—actually there’s this...old quarter I visited the other day! That’s what I really want to talk about. Full of bars and restaurants and I-I thought of you. Called the Barri Gòtic. So many tourists and so much noise, and I know you would have loved it there!”

“How great! What did it look like?”

Putting him on speakerphone, I search it up.

“Like something out of a movie, Uncle.”