For four years, I had stood at bus stops before sunrise.
I had walked home in the rain.
I had carried grocery bags three blocks because taxi fare felt irresponsible.
Once, during winter, I slipped on an icy sidewalk and tore the knee of my work pants.
I remember sitting there for several seconds, exhausted and embarrassed, wondering how much longer I could keep doing it.
I never told Jane about that.
But somehow, standing in that parking lot, it felt as if every mile I had walked had finally led here.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.
Jane stepped closer.
“Say you’ll let me drive it sometimes.”
I laughed so suddenly that I started crying again.
“You don’t even live at home anymore.”
“I’m still your daughter.”
“And apparently still very expensive.”
She hugged me.
That evening, we drove home together.
Jane insisted I take the driver’s seat.
