Story of man abandoning annoying wife and son but not daughter during car escape from nuclear attack [duplicate]

Question

Trying to find SF short story about a man who flees a nuclear strike in his car with his wife, son, and daughter. Having been mocked for having prepared for the event, he finds his wife and son increasingly annoying as they drive, and finally drives off and leaves them at a filling station, taking only his teenage daughter, with dubious ideas about their future together.

Answer 1

Lot by Ward Moore. From this article

"Lot” deals with David Jimmon, a Los Angeles suburbanite whose car is packed to the gills like a mockery of a camping vacation, as he prepares for the long crawl along a freeway full of motorists hoping to flee the atomic blasts raining down on American cities. Jimmon gloats over his preparedness, mentally chiding his family—two obnoxious sons, a naive wife, and dutiful daughter Erika—for their lack of vision.

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By the end, Jimmon has decided that there is only one choice he can make to survive this apocalypse, resolutely heading for the hills while his family stares back at their past lives as fiery destruction rains down on LA like the wrath falling upon Sodom. And without hesitation, without compassion, without caring, he makes that choice.

If accepted, this is a duplicate of this question

Link to Internet Archive; here's the final scene - Erika is the daughter:

Mr. Jimmon beckoned his wife around the other side of the wagon, out of sight. Swiftly but casually he extracted the contents of his wallet. The 200 dollar bills made a ht lump. “Put this in your bag,” he said. “Tell you why later. Meantime why don’t you try and get Pearl and Dan on the phone? See if they’re OK?”

He imagined the puzzled look on her face. “Go on,” he urged. “We can spare a minute while he’s checking the oil.”

He thought there was a hint of uncertainty in Molly’s walk as she went toward the store. Erika joined her brothers. The tank gulped; gasoline splashed on the concrete. “Guess that’s it.”

The man became suddenly brisk as he put up the hose, screwed the gascap back on. Mr. Jimmon had already disengaged the hood; the man offered the radiator a squirt of water, pulled up the oil gauge, wiped it, plunged it down, squinted at it under the light and said, “Oil’s OK.”

“All right,” said Mr. Jimmon. “Get in Erika.”

Some of the light shone directly on her face. Again he noted how mature and self-assured she looked. Erika would survive — and not as a savage either. The man started to wipe the windshield. “Oh, Jir,” he said casually, “run in and see if your mother is getting her connection. Tell her we’ll wait.

“Aw furcrysay, I don’t see why I always — ”

“And ask her to buy a couple of boxes of candy bars if they’ve got them. Wendell, go with Jir, will you?”

He slid in behind the wheel and closed the door gently. The motor started with hardly a sound. As he put his foot on the clutch and shifted into low he thought Erika turned to him with a startled look. As the station wagon moved forward, he was sure of it.

“It’s all right, Erika,” said Mr. Jimmon, “I’ll explain later.”

He’d have lots of time to do it.