Report cards came home that Tuesday. My daughter's had a D in math and a note about attendance. Mine, I guess, was the silence in the car after.
I'd taken the bridge toll road by accident, the long way home, because I couldn't stop crying long enough to read the signs.
Forty cents short. I sat there digging through the console, through the cup holder, through my purse, finding nothing but old receipts and a flashlight I kept by the back door at home, somehow thrown into my bag that morning.
The tollbooth operator looked at me. I was a mess. Red eyes, shaking hands, still gripping that stupid flashlight like it was a weapon.
He didn't say a word. Just waved me through.
I drove three miles before I pulled over. Sat on the shoulder of the highway and sobbed for a different reason entirely.
I never found out his name. But somebody that day decided I'd had enough. I've tried to pass that on ever since.