“Mr. Whitmore!” Gloria stammered, quickly placing the jar down beside her. “I—I didn’t know you were returning today.”

Michael crossed the room, his gaze fixed on the jar that held his concern. “What is this?” he demanded, pointing at the container, his voice taut with a mix of anger and worry.

Gloria hesitated, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “It’s just some homemade applesauce,” she explained nervously. “I thought it would be a nice treat for Emily. She seemed to like it the last time.”