For two years, I never thought twice about driving a neighbor’s daughter to school. But the first morning I needed that same kindness for my daughter, one look at the ten-year-old’s wet shoes changed everything.
For two years, I drove my ten-year-old daughter, Emma, and her classmate Sophie to school every weekday.
It wasn’t something Vanessa and I ever formally arranged.
Sophie lived four houses down with Vanessa, and one morning Vanessa knocked on my door while I was packing Emma’s lunch.
Sophie lived four houses down
“Would you mind taking Sophie this morning?” she asked. “My Pilates class got moved, and I’m already running late.”
“Sure,” I said. “We’re going there anyway.”
The next morning, she asked again.
Then again two days later.
Eventually, nobody asked anymore.
“We’re going there anyway.”
Sophie just started showing up at our house at 7:20 with her backpack.
I honestly didn’t mind.
Sophie was a sweet kid. Quiet at first, but funny once she got comfortable.
Emma liked having someone to talk to during the drive, and their school was only about five miles away.
Besides, I’ve always been the parent people call.
I honestly didn’t mind.
