Tarzana Hospital, Room 304, 2:38pm
Daughter: Dad, do you want a hug?
Dad: I always want a hug.
[Dad's eldest daughter walks to hospital bed, leans in for a hug.]
Daughter: Doesn't that feel better?
Dad: Yes. You know I love you, right? Everything happens the way it should. It might not be the way we want it to happen, but everything happens the way it should.
Daughter: You don't have to say that.
Dad: Yes I do, because I'm your Dad. That's my job.
Daughter: But sometimes you lose your job, or you leave it.
[Both laugh. After living in New York for 13 years, Dad's eldest daughter just left decade-long job as a magazine editor and is spending a few weeks at home.]
Daughter: Well, maybe you can let your job go for a minute. Don't you feel relieved not to have the responsibility? Enjoy it!
[Both laugh. Eldest daughter gives Dad a kiss on the cheek. Hug ends.]
Eldest Daughter = me.
Dad = Dad.