It's not that I'd been about to blurt it out myself, right then. We weren't running that late, yet. But I'd slipped up enough times before—missing a Metro train, yes, definitely—and he'd picked up the whole rhythm and logic of it, the moment when Daddy's haste and frustration would crest. He could hear and echo the bad words even if I kept them inside my skull.
"Fuck!" he repeated, with rising merriment, as I put the car in reverse and looked over my shoulder. "Fuck!"
This is parenting I can get behind.