It was supposed to be a quick errand — just milk, bread, and back home before dinner.
My daughter Miri, eleven years old and wiser than most adults I know, offered to walk ahead with Max, her service dog-in-training. She takes that role seriously. Always does. Max wears his vest like armor, and she treats him like a teammate on a mission.
I was two aisles over when I heard the voice — shrill, cutting, furious.
I froze.
I knew that voice wasn’t mine, which meant someone was yelling at my daughter.
I rounded the corner and stopped cold.
There she was — a woman in yoga pants and fury, pointing her manicured finger inches from my child’s face like Miri had committed some unspeakable crime.
