Write about: the wrong number.
Becky arrived safe and sound this afternoon, but not without a minor complication. She was supposed to send me a text when her bus was leaving Penticton so that I had an idea of when to expect her but I didn't get anything. Eventually I called the Greyhound station up there to see what time the bus had left, if it had left at all, and was told that it headed our way right on time.
So I went to the bus stop here in town without having heard from her, hoping there was just some sort of mix up. Forgot her phone, phone battery was dead, something like that.
Turns out? She wrote down the wrong number and had been texting somebody else the whole trip. I asked if she got any interesting replies but she said she never heard back.
In other news: Max left his teenage months behind today, as it has now been twenty months since he was born.
A moment of distraction, of not paying quite enough attention to what I was doing. That's all it took. If not for a brief loss of focus none of this would have ever happened.
Is that true? It must be. I find it difficult to comprehend though, that something so minor could lead to something so... life-altering.
What if I had written the number down more clearly? What if I had remembered hearing them in a different order and recognized my error before it was too late?
But I did not. So I parked my car at the curb and strolled confidently toward the front door, leaving the traitorous piece of paper in the glove box. I knocked with a firm hand, not too loud, not too softly. The flowers were tucked behind my back, safely out of sight and ready to be flourished at just the right time.
And then... surprise! You opened the door. Not at all who I was expecting.
But, perhaps, exactly who I needed.