She arrived twenty minutes late.
I went to work afterward, trying to focus on my responsibilities while replaying that morning in my head.
That evening, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, comparing repair estimates.
My phone buzzed.
It was Vanessa.
Is your car fixed? Sophie needs picking up at 7:20 tomorrow. I have Pilates.
I stared at the message.
I read it again, hoping I had misunderstood.
There was no question about Emma.
No concern about the car.
No acknowledgment of what had happened.
She simply wanted to know whether I would be available to resume the service she had come to expect.
For two years, I had treated her daughter like family.
Apparently, Vanessa had treated me like a free transportation service.
I turned my phone facedown.
For the first time in two years, I made a decision about the following morning.
Even if the Honda started by some miracle, I wasn’t picking Sophie up at 7:20.
