The returns line snaked past the jewelry counter, full of people with boxes and bags. I stood there with a too-small sweater and a hospital parking validation ticket crumpled in my coat pocket.
The sweater was for my foster daughter. She’d been in the hospital the week before Christmas, so I’d guessed her size wrong. She wore it anyway on Christmas morning, even though it pinched her shoulders.
It was the first day back after leave — she was at school, and I had an hour before pickup. I needed to swap this for something that fit.
The validation ticket proved I'd been there, in the garage, on those long nights. Three days of sitting in a plastic chair, watching her sleep.
A woman ahead of me turned and smiled. 'First time back after the holidays?' I nodded. 'It gets easier,' she said. 'Every year.'
I thought of my daughter. Maybe it does. Not the leaving — the coming home.