“I know.”
“Then why am I doing it?”
“Because you’re better.”
I smiled.
Children are wonderful negotiators.
I tied it.
Vanessa said.
“Walter, make sure they leave by seven forty-five.”
“I know.”
Then she looked at the sink.
“And wipe the coffee machine when you finish.”
I nodded.
Ethan said nothing.
At seven forty-five, I drove the children to school.
My old pickup stood out among the SUVs.
Noah loved it.
He called it the dinosaur.
Emma asked.
“Grandpa, why don’t you buy a new truck?”
“This one works.”
“It makes noises.”
“So do I.”
She laughed.
Noah said.
“Mom says old cars are embarrassing.”
I glanced at him in the mirror.
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No.”
“Then we’re fine.”
That became our morning routine.
School.
Soccer discussions.
Emma’s questions.
Some days she asked things I knew.
Some days she didn’t.
“Grandpa, why does the moon follow the car?”
