I turned.
Nancy Carter stood near the desk, her expression carefully neutral in the way administrators do when they’re about to ruin your day.
“Hey,” I said brightly. “Please tell me you’re here to compliment my excellent daughtering skills.”
She didn’t smile. That was the first drop.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked gently.
Oh, that tone. That was the second drop.
“Sure,” I said, because what else do you say? “I’m extremely minute-rich.”
She led me into the small office off the main hall. The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly the air felt too thick. There were charts stacked neatly on her desk. A soft hum from the overhead light. A motivational poster about resilience that felt aggressively ironic.
“Is he okay?” I sat crossing and uncrossing my legs, keeping my voice light, like we were discussing laundry detergent.
She folded her hands. “Your father has had three wandering incidents in the past two weeks,” she said. “And an escalation in nighttime agitation.”
The words landed in neat, professional rows. Wandering incidents. Escalation.
I nodded like we were discussing weather patterns.
“He’s been more confused in the evenings,” she continued. “And there was an episode last night where he became disoriented.”
My throat tightened. “He didn’t say anything about that,” I said.
“He likely wouldn’t remember it clearly.”
Of course, he wouldn’t.
“Belle,” she said softly, “we believe he may need step-up care.”
There it was. The third drop.
I blinked. “Step-up like . . . an extra puzzle book?”
Her expression gentled even further.
“Step-up as in our higher-acuity wing. More supervision. Additional staff overnight. A different level of support.”
Different level. Higher acuity. More supervision . . . More money.
“How different?” I asked.
And I hated that my first thought wasn’t what that meant for him.
It was what that meant for the bill.
“We’ll need to reassess his care plan,” she said carefully. “There would be an increase in monthly cost.”
There it is. The fourth drop. My smile stayed in place out of pure muscle memory.
“Define increase,” I said.
She slid a paper across the desk.
The number stared up at me. It didn’t just increase. It doubled.
