She was late. Her mother would never let her hear the end of it. She could hear it now. “Why didn’t you leave earlier?” “We expected you for lunch, it’s late afternoon.” And that look, the look her mother always gave her, the combination of betrayal and disappointment.
The road looked the same. These trees had to be fifty years old, maybe older. They’d been here since before she could remember. She’d never paid particular attention before. The trees were beautiful.
She pulled over. She rolled down the windows. The air outside was crisp, cold. It smelled like Christmas.
She took a deep breath.