Four o’clock in this house has a very specific sound. It’s the sound of keys hitting the table, the dogs losing their minds like David’s been gone for six months instead of six hours, and C already halfway to the door before David even gets his shoes off. Because 4 PM isn’t just a time — it’s a shift change. It’s the moment the whole house exhales because Dad is home, and the next part of the day can finally begin. Thank the LORD.
C waits for this moment like it’s a scheduled event, even though David’s schedule is anything but predictable. Some days he walks in tired. Some days he walks in frustrated. Some days he walks in carrying the weight of work, his mom, CSL Plasma, and whatever else life threw at him. But no matter what kind of day he had, when C says, “Dad, can we go driving?” David always gives the same answer — a sigh, a nod, and a “Yeah, let’s go.”
And that’s love. Not the movie kind. The real kind.
They head out to the car, and I watch them from the doorway the way moms do — half proud, half nervous, half wanting to yell “Be careful!” even though I know they will be. C gets behind the wheel with that mix of confidence and caution that only teenagers have. David settles into the passenger seat like a man who has accepted his fate. And then they pull out of the driveway, slow and steady, like the whole world is watching.
I know what happens in that car because I’ve heard the stories. David teaching him how to ease into a turn instead of swinging it like he’s in a Fast & Furious audition. David reminding him to breathe. David telling him to look ahead, not at the hood. David explaining how to judge distance, how to merge without panicking, how to park without taking out a mailbox. And C listens — not because he has to, but because it’s his dad and respect.
There’s something about those drives that changes both of them. C gets to be the student and the adult at the same time. David gets to be the teacher and the protector at the same time. And somewhere between the stop signs and the parking lots and the “slow down, son,” they meet in the middle — father and son, man and boy, teacher and learner, both trying to figure out the world one mile at a time.
I don’t go with them. Not because I don’t want to, but because that’s their space. Their time. Their bond.
And when they come back — whether it’s twenty minutes or an hour later — they walk in with that quiet energy that only comes from doing something important together. C looks a little taller. David looks a little older. And the house feels a little more settled, like something good just happened out there on the road.
Driving isn’t just driving in this family. It’s growing. It’s learning. It’s trusting. It’s letting go just enough to let someone else take the wheel.
And every day at four o’clock, I get to watch it happen all over again and that is why the circle remains unbroken and even on the trying days this my circus and this is my Monkes.
Thank you,
Glenda, Charlie and Cates
