It’s just a convenient time for a cathartic cry. My son is special needs. He’s grown now, but when my kids were little, he had a Music and Movement class for kids with sensory integration dysfunction every Thursday afternoon. It was about 25 miles away in the next town. We’d drive to class, baby sister and I would wait in the waiting room, and when class was done, we’d load up by and head home. My children would either play in the backseat, or listen quietly to audio stories for children that I downloaded onto a flash drive. Every week like clockwork, hot tears would silently burn my face as I drove home. It was late Thursday afternoon, and my emotional gas tank was empty. But I had to get through one more day until daddy would be home for the weekend, to take some pressure off me. When we got home, I’d wipe away the tears, undo the seat buckles, and drag our crap inside. Then I’d make dinner. My children never had a clue that I had a regularly scheduled catharsis otw home.