The routine never changed.
At 3:20 p.m., I would hear the low rumble of the engine before the bus reached our street. I would step onto the porch, usually with a dish towel over one shoulder or a mug cooling in my hand.
The bus stopped in front of our house.
He waved goodbye to the driver.
Then he ran straight into my arms.
Ethan was small for his age, but he moved like he had springs in his shoes.
His backpack bounced against his shoulders as he raced across the sidewalk.
Most days, he started telling me about school before he even reached the porch.
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