toward her house.
Ben tugged on my sleeve.
“Mom, what did she mean?”
“I don’t know.”
That was a lie.
I knew exactly which red light she meant.
What I couldn’t understand was how Monica knew.
Daniel and I met twenty-seven years earlier because he ran a red light while turning and clipped me while I was crossing the street.
I wasn’t seriously injured.
Daniel had been horrified.
He insisted on driving me to the hospital himself, stayed until the doctors released me, drove me home, and returned the next morning carrying coffee and another apology.
Over the years, it became our private joke.
One terrible red light had somehow given us twenty-seven years together.
We told people the general story of how we’d met.
But Daniel had always hated admitting that he had actually run the light.
That detail stayed between us.
At least, I thought it had.
Yet
