That’s how we stayed while the coffin was lowered.
By late summer, our house was full of boxes.
College had seemed distant for years until suddenly my dining room was covered in chargers, bedding, paperwork, medication lists, wheelchair repair kits, and enough snacks to survive a minor natural disaster.
Brielle insisted she needed twelve pairs of shoes.
Taryn asked why someone who used a wheelchair needed twelve pairs of shoes.
Brielle told her fashion had nothing to do with walking.
I stayed out of that argument.
Mostly.
I labeled chargers.
They removed my labels.
I printed emergency information.
They told me everything was already in their phones.
At one point, Taryn caught me laminating an accessibility checklist.
She stared at it.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You laminated it.”
“That’s called being prepared.”
Brielle rolled her eyes.
“You’ve spent eighteen years teaching us not to panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
