The morning of, she stood in the doorway holding it, her small face serious.
Hair already slicked back, socks sliding on the tile.
“Promise you’ll be there,” she said, like she was checking for cracks in me.
I knelt down to her level and made it real.
“I promise,” I said. “Front row, cheering the loudest.”
She grinned—gap-toothed and unstoppable.
“Good,” she said, heading off to school half walking, half spinning.
For once, I went to work feeling light instead of dragged down.
But by two, the sky turned that heavy, angry gray everyone pretends to be surprised by.
Around 4:30, the dispatcher’s radio crackled with bad news.
Water main break near a construction site, flooding half the block, traffic going insane.
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