My dad saw me limping down our quiet street, my baby on my hip—no car, no help. He frowned. “Why are you walking? I bought you an SUV.” I looked at him, took a breath… and finally whispered the truth he was never meant to hear.

From the back seat, Evan made a sleepy little sound, and that settled more than anything else could have. I opened the truck door carefully and stepped down. Pain shot through my ankle immediately, bright and sharp, but at least this time I wasn’t carrying groceries and a baby too. Dad came around, lifted Evan from his seat, and settled him against his shoulder like he had done it every day of his life. Then he nodded toward the stairs.

We climbed.

The apartment door was unlocked. That told me Patricia was home, and it also told me she felt safe. People leave doors unlocked when they’re sure no one is coming to challenge them. Dad knocked anyway, once, firm enough to announce himself.

Patricia opened the door with a kitchen towel in her hand and irritation already arranged across her face. She was one of those women who could look polished while making you feel messy just for standing nearby. Her blond hair was sprayed perfectly into place, her lipstick immaculate, her whole expression sharpened by years of habit. The irritation vanished when she saw my father, and something colder took its place.

“Can I help you?” she asked.