Paisley was secured in her properly installed rear-facing car seat; I did not hold her during the drive, though every instinct wanted her close.

The truck smelled of coffee and clean upholstery.

Nobody asked me to explain myself.

Nobody told me I was overreacting.

Dad simply pointed out the turn to his house and said he had bought the brand of applesauce I liked when I was little.

At his front door, a lamp burned in the hallway.

The guest room had fresh sheets, a place for Paisley to sleep, a bottle of water, and a small table for the medicines and discharge instructions.

A basket held diapers, wipes, and tiny cotton clothes washed without perfume.