What does the last paragraph suggest about Lucy's father?

The letter from the university had been sitting on the kitchen table for three days, propped against the salt shaker where nobody could miss it. Lucy Garza had read it so many times that she could recite the second paragraph: she had been selected for a four-week summer engineering program in Austin, with housing and meals provided. The program began on June 2.

June was also the start of watermelon season, the busiest weeks of the year at her family's fruit stand outside Mission. Since her older brother had moved to Dallas, Lucy was the one who opened the stand at seven, counted the cash drawer, and argued with the produce supplier in two languages whenever he tried to deliver soft melons.

She had not mentioned the letter to her father. Neither had he, although she had seen him pick it up once, hold it at arm's length the way he did without his glasses, and set it back exactly where it had been.

On Saturday they worked the stand together. Business was slow in the heat of the afternoon, and her father spent most of it on a ladder, scraping the faded paint off the wooden sign that faced the highway. Lucy watched him from under the awning. The sign had said GARZA FRUIT & VEGETABLES for as long as she could remember, though by now the R in FRUIT had nearly disappeared.

"You're going to fall off that thing," she called.

"Then you'll have to run the stand by yourself," he said, without looking down. "You already know how."

She did not answer. That was exactly the problem. She knew how, and if she went to Austin, no one else would.

By evening he had painted the whole board white. He climbed down, wiped his hands on a rag, and asked her to hold the ladder steady while he lettered. She expected the same words in the same red paint. Instead he opened a small can of blue and, working slowly, painted GARZA & DAUGHTER.

Lucy stared at it. "Dad, people are going to think it's a different business."

"It's the same business," he said. "It just has a better owner coming." He handed her the brush. "Your cousin Tony needs a summer job. I already asked him. He's slower than you, but he can learn to count a drawer in four weeks." He paused. "Engineers have to build things that keep working when they're not standing next to them. Isn't that the whole idea?"

She laughed, though her eyes stung, and climbed two steps up the ladder to fix the tail of the G, where the paint had dripped.

The next morning the letter was gone from the kitchen table. She found it in an envelope by the front door, already stamped, with the reply card on top. Her father had filled in the parent's signature line in his careful, slow handwriting.