It was one of those Thursdays where nothing broke right. Overdraft email, burnt toast, a missed call from my boss I was too afraid to return.
My Aunt Dee pulled into the driveway unannounced around noon. She does that sometimes, just shows up with no plan and no agenda.
We sat outside in a white plastic lawn chair I'd dragged from the garage. She talked about her tomatoes. I said almost nothing.
I got cold and grabbed my dad's old denim jacket from the hook by the door. He's been gone two years and I still haven't emptied the pockets.
In the left one, folded tight, was a twenty-dollar bill and a note in his handwriting. 'For a good day. Love, Dad.'
I sat back down and stared at it. Aunt Dee saw my face and didn't say a word. She just put her hand on my knee.
Twenty bucks and five words, left in a jacket I almost gave to Goodwill last spring.
The whole day turned over after that. Not fixed, exactly. But different.