WHAT WAS IT THAT STOPPED THE TRAIN THAT DAY?
Signal problems? Wet leaves? A body on the tracks? Whatever it was, the train was running late again. Which meant I’d be an hour, maybe two, maybe three, late to work again. Which meant I’d be staying late and not getting home until long after the kids had gone to bed. Again.
I was well into my second year writing for the Washington Post, a dream job by any measure. Except for one tiny problem. The Post is based in Washington, DC. My wife, Briana, and I, along with our two-year-old twins, Jack and Charles, lived just outside of Baltimore. Between our home and the Post newsroom lay about 80 miles of commute, 90 to 120 minutes by car, train, subway,…
