The Drive Home

The meeting had gone fine. That was the strange part. Nothing had actually happened.

But somewhere on the highway, three exits from home, his hands were gripping the wheel harder than the traffic required. The radio was too loud and then it was off completely. He found himself replaying a comment his manager made, something about timelines, nothing said with any edge to it at all, and by the second replay his jaw had started to ache from clenching it.

He pulled into the driveway and sat there a minute with the engine off, not ready to go inside yet.

His kid ran out to meet him at the door, already talking before the door was fully open, something about a drawing, a friend, a snack. And he heard himself say, sharper than he meant to, just give me a minute, in a tone that had nothing to do with the drawing or the friend or the snack.

His kid’s face did the thing kids’ faces do. Went still for a second, recalibrating.

He hadn’t been angry at his kid. He hadn’t really been angry at his manager either, not exactly. He’d been carrying something since the meeting that never got put down, not on the drive, not in the driveway, and it had finally found somewhere to land. It landed on the smallest person in the house, the one least responsible for any of it.

He knelt down. Sorry, bud. Long day. Show me the drawing.

The drawing was of a dog. It was a very good dog.

If you’ve ever carried something home that wasn’t yours to hand off, you’re not the only one. Rick Novak writes about these moments and how people learn to catch them earlier. Find his work at ricknovakauthor.com.