For the first time, he couldn't hide the panic on his face quickly enough.
"You can't leave."
I looked at him and kept hold of my luggage.
"I've signed the contract. The vehicle's waiting."
"I said you can't leave."
His voice was low, carrying the same commanding tone he'd always used. For 30 years, all he'd had to do was tell me I couldn't, and I'd stop whatever I was doing. I'd take off the shoes I'd already put on, unpack what I'd already packed, and push my own plans back again.
This time, I simply tucked my ID badge into my breast pocket.
"You don't get to decide where I go."
Richard's expression hardened.
"Mom's still in the hospital. The children need you. The family can't manage without you right now."
"The caregiver has signed the care contract, and our son and daughter
