At five p.m. she allowed herself a single scotch on the rocks. It eased the transition from late afternoon to evening, now the saddest part of the day. She had always said late afternoons were the happiest time, as she watched the light drain from the sky, peeling potatoes or carrots at the kitchen sink, gazing at the trees in winter, burnished by the copper sun. She called it the “almost time.” Homework almost done, dinner almost ready, Daddy almost home.
