My dad saw me limping down the street with my baby and groceries and asked, “Where’s your car?” When I whispered, “His mom took it… said I’m lucky they let me stay,” Dad didn’t argue. He opened the door and said, “Get in. We’re fixing this tonight

back early.”

Then she noticed my father.

Her smile faltered. “And you are…?”

“Mark Holloway,” Dad said, offering his hand politely even though his eyes were ice. “Lauren’s father.”

Patricia didn’t take his hand. “Well,” she said, voice sugar-thin, “this is unexpected.”

Dad nodded. “So is my daughter limping down the street with my grandson because her car continue reading …