Just like he had in the checkout line.
The woman facing him was maybe in her early fifties.
Good coat.
Tired face.
The kind of beauty that had once been easy and had now been worn into something tighter by work, worry, and not enough sleep.
She had his eyes.
Which made it worse.
Because anger always hurts more when it is coming out of a face that once looked up to you.
“Caroline,” Walter said quietly, “lower your voice.”
“Lower my—” She stopped, pressed her fingers to her forehead, and tried again. “Dad, I have called you six times. Mrs. Keller said she saw you drive off and I nearly came out of my skin.”
“I went to the store.”
“I can see that.”
“I wanted sauce.”
Something in me flinched at that.
Not because of what he said.
Because of how he said it.
Like a boy caught doing something forbidden.
Like wanting one Sunday dinner in your own house had somehow become suspicious.
I opened my car door before I had fully decided to.
That is the problem with being a nurse for thirty-two years.
Your body gets used to moving toward distress.
Even when your common sense says stay out of it.
Even when your knees remind you that you are sixty-nine and not made for rushing into parking lots like some kind of old-lady action hero.
By the time I got to them, Caroline had both hands out.
Not touching him.
Not yet.
But close enough to the keys in his palm that the intent was obvious.
“Hi,” I said.
Both of them turned.
Walter looked relieved.
Caroline looked like I had materialized out of thin air to make her day worse.
“I’m Nancy,” I said. “We were just inside together.”
Her eyes flicked over me.
The practical shoes.
The cardigan.
The face that has spent enough years being told family business is private to recognize the boundary I was stepping over.
She gave a short nod.
“Caroline,” she said. “His daughter.”
That explained the voice.
Not the sharpness.
The panic under it.
“Your father did fine in there,” I said.
“He drove here alone.”
“So did I.”
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