walked inside.

Three steps later, he stopped.

The living room was crowded with equipment.

A folding hospital bed.

A wheelchair.

Two walkers.

A shower chair.

Blood-pressure monitors.

Transfer belts.

Laminated instruction sheets.

Dad stared at everything.

Then Elliot walked in from the kitchen carrying two cups of coffee.

He froze.

“Well,” he said slowly. “This is awkward.”

Dad looked at him.

Then at the wheelchair.

Then the hospital bed.

Then back at Elliot.

Elliot looked healthy.

Strong.

Completely fine.

Dad’s face changed.

“He’s better.”

“He has been for years.”

Then he noticed the dining table.

Grandpa’s old black medical bag was lying open beside stacks of workshop folders.

Dad walked toward it.

His fingers touched the worn leather.

“My father’s bag.”

“You gave it to me.”

“When you started medical school.”

“I remember.”

He looked inside.

There were gloves.

Medication schedules.

A pulse oximeter.

Measuring tape.

Transfer straps.

Laminated cards