Mrs. Andrews always dreaded Mondays. Jim had been killed on a Monday. A bright spring morning, forever ruined by an unlikely drunk driver.
Once past Monday, there was Tuesday. Just before eleven, there would be the sound of a bike bell as the girl rode quickly back up the lane.
Then the smell of fresh-baked bread greeted her as she stepped out onto the porch.
Tuesdays were always much better than Mondays.