“We cannot destroy kindred: our chains stretch a little sometimes, but they never break.” ~Marquise de Sévigné

The other day I received a phone call from my Dad; he needed a new phone and wanted my “expertise.”

Several months ago, I had suggested a new phone, but my Dad said he could wait. I wanted to do it then when it suited my schedule, but he wasn’t ready and now he was ready so here I was canceling an appointment and taking him to the Apple store.

We found a parking spot and I filled the meter with enough quarters to reach the 2-hour limit.

“This isn’t going to take two hours, is it?” my Dad asked.

“I don’t think so,” I replied knowing damn well it would probably take at least three.

As we enter the Apple store we are paired up with an associate.

“Hi, I’m Teddy – please don’t shake my right hand, I have arthritis and cannot grip,” says our Apple associate. This opens the door for my Dad to share details about his arthritis. I smile: being matched to Teddy is a success.

My Dad tells Teddy he wants an iPhone 8; off Teddy goes to get the phone. My Dad is happy and thinks we’re done. He has no idea we need his Apple ID and password (neither of which he knows) and go through the gyrations of set-up, back- up and restore.

Teddy moves us to a community “Help” table with other customers in various stages of their device set up. I am the youngest one at the table. My thoughts go to the SNL spoof “Amazon Echo Silver” and the “Hey, goo, goo” video.

We have issues accessing iCloud and with 2-step verification and find out he has two iCloud accounts. I sigh. Thankfully, I have my Mom’s 8-page list of login and passwords I found tucked in a drawer. As I search the passwords I begin to perspire; my anxiety mounts as I jump one hurdle after another. I am grumpy: I have other things I need to do.

In the meantime, my Dad is enjoying the company of the other retirees at our table.

“My daughter is great at cracking passwords. I’m glad she’s here to help me” he brags as he tells the senior citizens at the table how lucky he is to have me and what a big help I am.

And that’s when it happens: my heart softens and melts: my Dad needs and appreciates me.

3-1/2 hours later we leave the Apple store. As my Dad yells “Hey Sarah!” (Um, it’s Siri, Dad) into his phone, I know that this is where I am supposed to be, and this is what I am supposed to be doing at this point in life: putting family first – and that’s perfectly fine with me.