The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and Pine-Sol that Tuesday morning, the way it always had for 40 years.
I stood at the counter, wrapping leftover banana bread in foil, the radio humming low about rain that wouldn’t come. At 65, my mornings looked exactly as they had at 45, but I’d stopped noticing the sameness a long time ago.
My phone buzzed. It was my son, Daniel.
I’d stopped noticing the sameness.
“Mom, the transmission finally went. I hate to ask.”
“How much, sweetheart?”