A short one today — this is my take on a classic apocryphal story.

Julie hung up the phone and set it deliberately in the cup holder and smiled sadly. This ritual — removing the distraction of the phone — had been drilled into her by her mom from the first time she sat in a car to drive. Mom, who hadn’t been around to remind her for… what was it? Five years next month? Julie shook her head. Feels like yesterday and it feels like a lifetime ago. She sighed, then shook off the sadness — she was, after all, late, so this was a lousy time to sentimentalize.
Checked her mirrors (twice), signaled and pulled out into traffic. She had programmed destination — a new Beginning Piano student on the west side — during the call to let them know she would be a little late. The automated voice told her to turn left onto Laurel, but she knew this part and paid it little attention. Ten minutes later (and five minutes late, she thought) she had threaded her way through the surface streets and obediently turned onto Getchell Street.
The setting sun glared fiercely off the ocean at the end of the road and Julie reached for her sunglasses on the passenger seat. She started scanning the addresses of the houses as she attempted to open her sunglasses with one hand. The plastic frames slipped from her distracted fingers and fell to the floor. She looked forward, then reached down for her sunglasses.
“JULIE! STOP!” Her mom’s voice rang out clear and strident as a bell, and Julie slammed both feet on the brake pedal through sheer reflex, dragging the car to a near-instant stop.
She looked up and not a foot from the front of her bumper saw the shoulders, head, and panic-filled eyes of a four year old boy clutching the red ball he had chased into the street.