Besides, I had always been the parent people called when something went wrong.
If Greg had to work late, I drove his daughter Mia to soccer.
When Rachel broke her ankle, I handled school pickups for her two boys for almost three weeks.
I had turned around for forgotten lunches, gym clothes, library books, and even one miserable-looking science-project bean plant.
I never kept score.
Helping people had always seemed easier than watching them struggle when I was already going in the same direction.
Still, there were signs that Vanessa viewed my kindness differently.
One Friday, Sophie failed to appear at 7:20.
I waited.
Then I texted Vanessa.
Five minutes later, she responded:
“Running behind. Can you wait?”
No apology.
Not even a “please.”
I waited anyway because leaving Sophie behind felt like punishing the wrong person.
When she finally ran outside, embarrassed and breathless, she climbed into the car.
“Sorry,” she said. “Mom couldn’t find her yoga mat.”
