A Baking Daughter

(I am 12 years old, and sick. My dad has to go to work as the manager of a bakery. Before he leaves, he gives me some instructions.)

Dad: “Remember honey, if your fever gets higher than 100, or you throw up, call [store name]. The number is on the fridge.”

(I am fine until about half way through the day, so I check my temperature. Sure enough, I am 101.5. I decide to call my dad at work.)

Me: “Can I speak to the bakery manager, please?”

Employee: “Sorry, he’s on break right now, so I’ll transfer you to our regional manager.”

Me: “No—”

Regional Manager: “What can I do for you?”

(I am starting to see spots and getting dizzy.)

Me: “Get me [name]! The bakery manager!”

Regional Manager: “Well, as my coworker said, he is on break. Can I take a message?”

Me: “Just tell him that his daughter is looking for him.”

Regional Manager: “Look missy; I’ve known [name] for as long as he’s worked here, and he’s never mentioned a daughter. I’ve had it with your shenanigans. This call is terminated.”

(I get a call back 20 minutes later.)

Dad: “Sweetie, they explained that you were looking for me. Are you alright?”

Me: “No! Your coworkers treated me like trash! I’ve got a rising temperature, and feel like I’m gonna puke! Please come home!”

Dad: “Okay sweetie, calm down, get yourself some water. I love you, and will be home as soon as possible.”

(It takes him about 20 minutes to get home. By then, I have a temperature of 102.)

Me: “What took you so long? It usually takes you 10 minutes to get home.”

Dad: “Well, the regional manager gave me this stuff to give to you. He says he’s an idiot for not listening to you. He hopes you get well soon.”

(I get an apology card, bar of chocolate, gift card, and a little stuffed bear. He still apologizes for being an a**-hole.)