The rideshare driver dropped me at the vet clinic and said this was his last trip of the shift. He was headed home to his own family.
Inside, the waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old carpet. A woman next to me held a cat that wouldn't stop shaking.
On the side table, someone had left a program from a school play. 2002 Spring Musical, it said. My grandson would have been in sixth grade then.
I ran my finger over the cover. I'd never seen him perform. I'd moved away five years before he was even born.
My son's dog whined from the carrier at my feet. I reached down and felt her warm nose press into my palm.
Twenty-three years I'd stayed gone. I told myself it was too far, too hard, too late.
But here I was. And that program sat on the table like an invitation I hadn't known I was ready to accept.
I slipped it into my bag. I think I'll call my grandson tonight.