Don't Call Us, We'll Call You

I had sent my father an email with a column from the NEW YORKER (the same one I wrote about here yesterday). He wrote back, a brief paragraph, to tell me about their upcoming trip to Maine, and then he wrote "Have a great rest of the summer." Well, last time I checked, summer was only about half over. I guess he doesn't plan on talking to me, seeing me, or emailing me until fall. I get the message loud and clear. Sad that it still hurts. And I wonder why I am depressed...