Headlong

My daughter’s day didn’t start off well. She’d stayed up late to finish university essays and study for an exam, and only got a few hours of sleep. In the morning she hurried to get ready for the 7:15 am train and realized she was getting a cold.

As I listened to her rushing between the washroom and her bedroom – then slamming things into her bag – I felt the rough start, her headlong run into the rough kind of grownup morning. But there didn’t seem to be a solution. At this stage of parenthood, my help isn’t often needed or wanted. I continued getting ready for my own workday, doing email and getting ready for an early meeting. Then thought – I can spare 20 minutes. So I offered my daughter a ride to the train station one stop south of our ours, giving her more time to shift into the day. 

Quiet drive

We drove down the highway in silence, waiting for the car heater to warm up. Watching for a long while as a thin line of dawn widened in the cloud bank, showing bright orange and blue. “Pretty,” she finally acknowledged, checking her phone then reminding me she wouldn’t be home until late. She was meeting a friend after the exam: “it’s been ages – I’m looking forward to seeing her” she said confidently, zipping up her coat. 

I turned into the station parking lot. The train was still a couple of minutes away: we could see its headlight shining from up the tracks. My daughter got out of the car – looking at me then, calmer; thanking me as she hoisted her backpack.

More lights were on in houses as I drove home, thinking about all the work I had to get done. Feeling that now the day would be a good one, that it’d be all right. 

PERSONAL ANECDOTE