One day I got a phone call from my girlfriend. Her dog had bit her on the mouth, and she was at the hospital. With difficulty, in a distorted voice, she described the disfiguring, bloody injury to her lips. I was shocked and saddened. I drove to the hospital and then comforted her while a plastic surgeon repaired her mangled lips. The injury was terrible, but fortunately the surgeon was able to repair most of the damage while I sat next to my girlfriend's stretcher in the emergency room.
This was many years ago, and I recall that the following coincidence happened on the same day, either as I was about to leave for the hospital, or after I returned home: My phone rang; I answered, and my father, 1,200 miles away, was on the line. He immediately asked me if I was all right. I told him I was fine, and I did not mention my girlfriend's injury. Again he asked me, with a worried tone in his voice, if everything was all right, and I said yes. I pretended things were fine, because I did not want to talk about what had just happened to my girlfriend. (Such was the nature of my relationship with my father.)
Then I asked my father why he was so concerned.