A late-night phone call

The phone rang at half past one in the morning. I knew, before I even opened my eyes, that it was bad news. Nobody calls at that hour to share something good. It was my mother. Her voice was calm, but I could hear the tension behind every word. 'Don't worry,' she said, 'but Dad is in the hospital. They think he had a small heart attack.' I drove to the city in two hours. I do not remember the drive. When I arrived, my father was in a quiet room with three machines around him. He was awake. He smiled when he saw me. 'You didn't need to come,' he whispered. 'But thank you.' He recovered in less than a week. The doctors said he was lucky. Since that night, I call my parents more often. Not every day — that would be too much. But twice a week, just to chat about nothing important. I have realised that the things that look ordinary today can suddenly become precious tomorrow.