Except Baltimore traffic doesn’t care about good intentions.
By 4:45, I’m still crawling through Charles Street, staring at brake lights, cursing under my breath. I’ve rechecked the GPS five times, as if it’ll magically give me a shortcut.
I text Finn:Might be five minutes late.
At 5:10, my phone buzzes with a text from Finn:Where are you?
I told him to call only me, text only me, and I promised I’d respond right away. I explicitly told him not to contact Jayne, who is picking up Mikaela from gymnastics.
I type:Two minutes away, even though it’s more like ten.
When I finally pull into the parking lot, he’s the last kid standing there, cleats slung over one shoulder, phone in hand, expression pure teenage exasperation.
He opens the car door and slides in, all dramatic sighs and silence.
“Sorry, bud. Traffic was a nightmare.”
He doesn’t look at me. “You left work too late.”
He’s right. I did. I squeezed in one more consult, thinking five minutes wouldn’t matter. Five minutes always matter.
“I’ll do better next time,” I promise, and he gives a half-nod that probably means “we’ll see.”
We drive in silence for a few blocks. Then he mutters, “You don’t have snacks.”
“Ah….”
“You’re supposed to bring snacks. Mom does.”
Damn it. Jayne definitely said something about having food and water ready, because Finn comes out of practice starving and dehydrated like he’s crossed the Sahara.
“Right.” I scan the car for anything edible. There’s an old pack of gum in the console. Not helpful. “Want to stop for something?”
He shrugs. “Can we go to Smoothie King?”
I smile despite myself. “You read my mind.”
By the time we’re halfway through our drinks, Finn starts talking—about a teammate who made a great goal, about his math test, about how the new Marvel movie looks “mid.”
Whew! I feel like I dodged about fifteen bullets.
When we get home, he grabs his bag and says, “Thanks, Dad.”
I watch him jog up the steps and realize how many little things I take for granted.
Jayne doesn’t show up late. She remembers snacks. Knows which smoothie he likes. Has spare napkins in the glove compartment. She does all that while thinking three steps ahead about dinner, homework, and laundry.
It’s…a lot.
And it’s not as if I hadn’t known it. I just hadn’trealizedit until now.
I drop my keys and jacket by the door and find her in the kitchen, talking with Mikaela, who’s working on her homework. The sight hits me with the kind of warmth I don’t expect.
“I picked him up,” I announce.
She looks up, eyes flicking over my face, searching.
“And we survived.”
