While my mom spent sixty minutes trying to pick a pack of lightbulbs or furnace filters or a new pair of glasses, my sisters and I scoured the aisles looking for our dad. We would split up, checking in snacks, beauty, toys, and everything in between. It was sometimes a race to see who could find him first, reaching the bottom aisle to stock an item or being in the middle of a conversation with a coworker. When we did, we could never help our arms opening. Our legs running. Our mouths forming the word “Daddy!” Our lips outstretched into big toothy grins. When we did, when we wrapped our arms around his legs, heads only reaching his stomach, our hearts were full. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I was home.