You’ve probably heard the expression: “don’t shoot the messenger”; regardless, its meaning is probably apparent. Just in case you are as metaphorically-challenged as I am, here’s an example.

My friend Donna recently had an overdue consultation with a specialist on account of a lump (now times three; thanks to Coronaphobic cancellations). As the doctor palpated her neck, he remarked, People need to decide how long they really want to live. After which statement he proceeded to tell her—every bit as tactfully—that her best case scenario was a half-step up from worst.

Donna was non-plussed. It was only afterwards she thought of a snide comeback: Just as blunt is a half-step up from callous. She was sorely tempted to blast him online, but refrained, figuring that her rant would be construed as payback for his relaying bad news.

As Donna thus concluded her tale, my mind turned unhappily to that Father's Day, 49 years ago, when I was the reluctant bearer of hurtful information. My paternal grandmother "Bee" had hosted a luncheon for my grandfather, "Pa" at a swanky Manhattan restaurant, nearby their apartment. My Uncle and his family came up from Washington, DC for the occasion. After dessert, Bee invited them back to the apartment, after which she turned to my mother and said: I'd ask all of you, too, but it would be too much for Pa.

During the ride home, my mother's long-simmering resentment toward her mother-in-law turned quick-boil. She spewed a selection from her Sunday collection of snide remarks, such as we heard during the trips to/from my grandparents' place for dinner. That hypocritical Witch with a Capital B: "too much for Pa," my twat. Hoity-toity English teacher cannot abide sub-literate hoi polloi housefrau. At least I can cook; the woman can barely slice a store-bought poundcake.

During her rant's "breath-taking" intermission, my mother demanded I hop into---and drive---her one-woman bandwagon. Aren't you outraged! Bee invited your cousins and excluded you. You should be furious! The minute we get home, you call her up and give her hell.

I told my mother that I held no grudge against Bee. I pointed out that we see Bee and Pa weekly; my long-distance cousins only visit twice a year. I suggested that she express her hurt feelings directly. 

My mother phoned, clenching her teeth anew with each spin of the dial. I refuse to speak to that insufferable snob! she said, soon as she heard Bee's voice. She thrust the receiver in my face.

After a quick greeting, wanting to get the unpleasantness over with, I got to the point. I told Bee that my mother felt slighted that we weren't asked back to the apartment. Bee, unused to frank talk (for which my blunt-speaking mother disparaged her), grew flustered and distressed. Pa, got on the line and asked what I had said to so upset my grandmother. I repeated my words.

Pa's response: Don't you dare ever, ever, call us again!

Pa died two years later. Bee became increasingly demented and lived another seven years, four years into which I paid her occasional visits. Conversation was pleasant, if stilted; Bee was, as always, impeccably polite. We never addressed our breach, for which she never appeared to hold a grudge. Which may or may not have been to her credit; after all, by then she had not the slightest idea who I was.