“You’ll survive.”
The silence that followed was beautiful.
I hadn’t planned to say it.
Honestly.
It just came out.
Denise looked at me with pure hatred.
Then from behind me came a small voice.
“Mum?”
I turned.
My six-year-old, Oliver, stood in the hallway in dinosaur pajamas.
“Why’s Mrs. Denise shouting?”
Before I could answer, my eight-year-old, Ben, appeared behind him.
Then he saw the recovery truck.
His eyes widened.
“Is her car getting arrested?”
The driver snorted.
I covered my mouth.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Cars can get arrested?”
“No.”
Oliver looked disappointed.
Denise snapped, “Can you keep your children inside?”
That did it.
I stepped out of my doorway.
“Do not bring my children into this.”
“They’re standing there staring.”
“They’ve spent three mornings sitting in my car while you made them late for school.”
“I never made anyone late.”
Ben said, very helpfully, “You did.”
I closed my eyes.
“Ben, inside.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Both boys disappeared.
Denise pointed toward my house.
“See? This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve turned this into some huge drama.”
“No, Denise. You parked across my driveway 22 mornings in a row.”
“It wasn’t 22.”
I opened my phone.
“Would you like dates?”
She didn’t answer.
I started anyway.
“May 27. Twenty-eighth. Twenty-ninth. June 3—”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“June 4. Fifth. Sixth—”
“Stop.”
“Tuesday the ninth, you blocked us for 22 minutes.”
Her eyes shifted.
I continued.
