Sarah had made chicken soup that afternoon, even after working an early shift. Grocery bags were still on the counter when I pulled into the driveway. The house smelled of broth, disinfectant, reheated coffee, and the menthol cream the nurse told us to rub into Dad’s knees before bed.
Dad came in wearing the same gray cardigan he had worn to the hospital, but now it hung off his shoulders like it belonged to someone else.
His hospital bracelet was still on his wrist.
My daughter noticed first. Daughterrelationship advice
“Grandpa, do you still have to wear that?”
Dad looked down as if he had forgotten it was there.
“No, sweetheart,” he said. “I guess I brought a little piece of the hospital home.”
Sarah’s face softened for half a second before she turned back to the stove and stirred the soup harder than necessary.
