That Tuesday should have been exactly the same.
I was thirty-eight, raising Ellie alone while working as a scheduling coordinator at a dental clinic.
My supervisor allowed me to complete my final working hour at home so I could collect Ellie afterward.
At 3:17, I shut my laptop, picked up my phone, and headed toward the corner.
At 3:19, the familiar yellow bus came into view.
I knew the driver instantly.
Frank Lawson.
He was a sturdy, broad-shouldered man with gray hair, pronounced creases beside his mouth, and a naturally stern expression that made him appear irritated even when he was merely focused.
He had driven Ellie’s school route for almost two years.
Our conversations seldom extended beyond brief greetings.
When the bus approached, I noticed Ellie sitting in the second row, with her purple schoolbag leaning against her legs.
She noticed me and grinned.
I waved back.
The bus halted.
