“Why are you standing like that?” my mom asks. It’s more accusing than concerning.
I’m standing, one hand braced against the wall, with a foot in the air, rolling my ankle trying to shake the pain.
“My foot hurts, I don’t want to stand on it,” I tell her.
From across the room my brother pipes up, “If I don’t take my gout pill I won’t be able to walk in a couple days.”
“Then take your medicine. Be grateful you have medicine that works for you, at least you have it. The medicine I take is more problematic than helpful,” I yell indignantly, and limp off in much the same fashion.