I was supposed to take the 12 to Elm Street Elementary. Instead I got on the 47, which goes to the old park.
By the time I realized, I was already three stops past where I should have been. I got off and walked, receipt from the grocery store still stuck in my back pocket.
She was there, on the bench by the swings, alone. The neighbor's grown kid, back home for the summer, was pushing his little brother on the other swing.
I sat down next to her and said I messed up. She laughed and said she didn't mind the quiet.
We talked about nothing for twenty minutes. Her backpack was unzipped, and I saw the bookmark she'd made from my old receipt — the one I'd left on the kitchen table.
I'd been trying so hard to be a real father. But that day, being the guy who took the wrong bus and showed up anyway was enough.