Saturday evening, the plague arrived.

I wasn’t just your garden variety plague either, but the full package: sweats, shakes, congestion, and a surprising amount of ear pain.

Since my family clearly did not properly appreciate the magnitude of my suffering, I was obliged to inform them, releasing carefully timed moans periodically throughout the day on Sunday.

They did not elicit the proper amount of attention.

This morning, I shuffled out of my bedroom to find my youngest son cheerfully making breakfast for the family. It was a wonderful gesture, an unasked-for gift for the rest of us.

“Morning, Daddy!” he said cheerfully.

“Morning,” I croaked.

“How are you feeling today?”

“I’m on Death’s Door,” I said, staggering slightly for effect.

He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Knock, knock, knock!” he said loudly. “Special delivery!”

I wrapped my robe more tightly around my disease-ridden frame and gave him my best dying glare.

It didn’t work. All he did was laugh harder as he returned to his breakfast-making.

There is no love in this world.

It was, however, a very tasty breakfast.