“So just promise me that you won’t start doing hard drugs, like heroin. I know people that are in pain all of the time do that sometimes,” my daughter said seriously while she was driving herself back home from work one rainy night. She still needs me in the passenger seat until she gets her license.

“Well, there are a few problems with this. First, where the hell would I get it? Secondly, how the hell would I afford it?” I replied.

“Kids in high school do it. It’s cheap.”

“Well, even if that’s true, I have no interest in messing with that sort of thing. It doesn’t lead to anything good.”

“Yeah, like death. We learned about it in health class.” We also lost a family friend a few years ago because of heroin addiction.

This is my daughters way of showing concern and affection for me.

“Right. I just bought some turmeric, so that might help. Or else my gas will smell like Indian food.”

“Isn’t that a spice?”

“Yeah. You gotta try everything you can, sometimes. Well, I have no idea what the future holds. Who knows, I might end up bedridden someday. Put me in a good nursing home.”

“I don’t believe in nursing homes,” she answered, turning a tight corner with ease. “The movie “Happy Gilmore” kinda ruined that for me.”

I didn’t answer, because my stomach suddenly didn’t feel so good. The thought of not being able to even get out of bed someday scares the shit out of me.

“I think you’re ready to try for your license, all we need to do is work on your maneuverability a bit more,” I said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I can’t wait until I can drive by myself.”

Me too, kid. Momma is tired.

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