The day my father came home from the hospital, he no longer looked like the man who had once carried a refrigerator up three porch steps just to avoid paying for delivery.
Not weak. He would have hated that word.
Just smaller, the way a house feels smaller after the laughter has gone out of it.
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.
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