In this passage, the author reminisces about a family holiday ritual.
Giddily, I watched my dad slowly back the car into the driveway and saw jealousy
envelop the neighbourhood. It was the signal. We were escaping frigid Stockholm for the
warm embrace of southern France. Now in my 60s, I'm still not sure why he insisted on backing in. Surely we could walk the extra 3 metres to load the trunk. Surely he could navigate backward down the driveway. So was it a flair for the dramatic? Bravado? An odd geometric puzzle only he understood? Some mysteries are more fondly left unsolved.
