One Saturday in early fall, Chloe stood in the kitchen with her backpack on both shoulders and asked if she could walk from the bus stop by herself again.
It was only six houses.
I wanted to say no.
Every part of me wanted to say no.
Daniel looked at me from across the island.
He did not rescue me from the decision.
He did not make it for me.
He just waited.
So I swallowed the fear sitting at the base of my throat and said, “I’ll watch from the porch.”
Chloe nodded like that was fair.
The next Monday, she got off the bus at 3:05.
Not 3:02.
Not early.
3:05.
She walked down the sidewalk in her school jacket, pink backpack bouncing against her shoulders, and lifted one hand when she saw me on the porch.
Our mailbox was still crooked.
The small American flag in the planter had been replaced with a new one.
