Dad, where are you?

That was Franny on the phone. Not what you usually want to hear when you pick up.

I'm putting on my shoes and getting ready to go, I said. It was 8 o'clock, and I needed to fetch Frank from her acting class at 8:30. But as soon as I said the words I realized I was really supposed to be there at 8, not 8:30. Damn!

Years ago, when I was a reporter at the Seattle Times, I was sitting around shooting the breeze with my editor one evening around 5. I casually asked how Jake was doing, her son who was about 11 at the time. Oh shit, Kathy said, and went literally running out of the newsroom. Turned out she was supposed to pick him up after school at 3 or 3:30, and he'd been standing on a corner waiting for her all that time. I can still see the horror on her face. It's the worst.

Anyway, Franny was fine, even though it was cold and dark outside at Seattle Center. Her acting teacher, a very nice guy named Andy, stood outside waiting with her. When I introduced myself and apologized (to both of them) he acted like it was no big deal, happens all the time. But I felt like world's biggest idiot.