I was circling for a space on Level 3 of the airport garage. Concrete walls, fluorescent hum, that chemical smell of stale air.
In the corner near the stairwell, someone had set a mousetrap. The cheese was cracked and yellow, forgotten.
I stopped the bus—my last shift before retirement—and just stared at it. It took me back forty years.
My stepfather used to set traps in the basement. Never said a word about it. Just checked them quietly every morning.
I was sixteen and angry, and I never thanked him. He wasn't my father. He didn't need to be trying.
That trap on Level 3, forgotten, still waiting. How many quiet battles did he fight that I never saw?
I pulled out of that garage and drove home. I called my mother and asked for his number. It's time.