I had never heard my dad laugh as hard as he did when I told him I would die of heatstroke without air conditioning.

He told me we had plenty of cool weather ahead of us, and he would not turn the air conditioning on yet.

It was eighty outside, and it was only mid-April. He told me it wasn’t the first time it was hot in April, and it won’t be the last. The temperatures were going back into the sixties until May, and he would not deal with the air conditioning when we would need the heat at night. I thought he was just being stubborn, and he didn’t want me to be comfortable. He wasn’t the one who had to sit in their room until their homework was done. He didn’t have to stand in a hot kitchen and make meals for the family. All he had to do was go to work, and I was sure he was comfortable doing his job. I had to tell him how I felt, and all he did was raise an eyebrow. He asked if I knew what he did? I knew he grew flowers. He wanted to know if I thought it was called a hothouse because there was a lot of air conditioning, or because it needed to be hot to keep the young plants alive. Maybe he had a point, but I would not admit that I knew what it was. I knew he probably had worse days at work than the few I was complaining about at school and at home, but I was hoping he would put at least one AC unit in the window. Hopefully, it will be my window.

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