“In-home care?” I whispered.
Just then, a white van pulled up behind the police car. A woman in blue scrubs stepped out, holding a clipboard.
“Mr. Miller?” she asked kindly. “I’m Angela. I’m your assigned home health nurse.”
I turned slowly toward my daughter’s locked door.
The older officer knocked firmly.
It took a minute, but she opened it, irritation written all over her face.
“What is all this?” she snapped.
“Ma’am,” the officer said calmly, “your father was approved for state-funded in-home medical assistance. We have documentation showing this address as his legal residence.”
She went pale.
“That’s not possible,” she muttered.
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