Mom, there’s a guy in our driveway with a tow truck, my son reports. With miscalculated insouciance I reply, No worries, dude, I’m sure it’s Bill. Bill, our neighbor, owns a service station. He’s hooking up your car, mom. I run outside to yell at this man, who’s not Bill, and end up handing over my keys. Chin up, I say to myself. My son watches from the garage. I’ve got this, I tell him with my face. A cascade of loss since the divorce; I find another teaching moment.
Submitted earlier to the 2016 Gotham Writers 91-Word Memoir Contest
— Janet Sasson Edgette