The car idled in the pickup line, sun low enough to cast a glow across the dash. Emily drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, half-listening to the radio, half-watching for a familiar face. When the chorus of that song came on—something poppy and ridiculous, the kind of thing she wouldn’t have touched before becoming a mom—she didn’t even fight the instinct to sing along. Not well. But loud.

A few cars ahead, the line began to inch forward. Emily eased her foot off the brake and rolled up a bit, humming. She glanced at the school doors, her eyes scanning automatically. It still got her, sometimes—how automatic it was now. This routine. This normalcy.

Then there—backpack slung crookedly, jacket half-zipped—came the best part of her day.

The back door opened with a familiar creak, and without turning around, Emily smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, twisting the volume knob down a few notches. “How was your day? Anyone need to be mildly intimidated by a federal agent?”