Too far forward.
“Again.”
She corrected her stance.
“Better.”
Dad watched carefully.
Parenting
She practiced turning.
Sitting.
Standing.
I didn’t touch her once.
I coached.
When she finished, she smiled.
“I still hate this thing.”
“You’re allowed.”
She visibly relaxed.
After she left, Dad looked at me.
“What exactly do you do here?”
“I’m a patient and family-care educator.”
He frowned.
“After Elliot recovered, I earned a master’s degree in health education and completed the hospital’s training program.”
Dad stared at me.
I gestured around the room.
“I teach families how to care for people safely at home. Mobility. Medication routines. Equipment use. I coordinate with therapists, nurses, pharmacists—whoever they need.”
“You’re not a nurse.”
“No.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“No, Dad.”
His eyes moved toward Grandpa’s bag.
“You do this as your career?”
Parenting
“Yes.”
For the first time all day, he looked uncertain.
Then the familiar expression returned.
“You could have done this after becoming a doctor.”
Five years disappeared in one sentence.
Same disappointment.
Same expectation.
“You were brilliant, Alyssa.”
Dictionaries & Encyclopedias
I placed Grandpa’s bag on the table.
“I still am.”
His expression shifted.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you meant.”
“You had a future people dream about.”
“Maybe I could have gone back.”
He immediately looked at me.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because being able to go back and wanting to go back are two different things.”
Dad stared at me.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
That answer hurt him.
For five years, I had been expected to understand him.
His anger.
His disappointment.
His silence.
Now he had to understand me.
His eyes returned to Grandpa’s bag.
“Your grandfather carried that bag into patients’ homes.”
“So do I.”
“He practiced medicine.”
“And what happened after the medical part was finished?”
Dad frowned.
Parenting
“What do you mean?”
“When Grandpa finished examining someone, what did he do?”
He became quiet.
I knew he remembered.
Grandpa’s house calls always took forever.
The diagnosis might take ten minutes.
Then he would spend another forty showing someone’s spouse how to position pillows properly.
Writing medication schedules in giant letters.
Explaining what symptoms required immediate help and what could wait until morning.
Dad had once told me Grandpa believed:
The appointment isn’t over just because the patient leaves the room.
