“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.
“My children were late. Again. I was an hour late to work. I came to your house and asked you, politely, to stop.”
Denise muttered, “I said I’d try.”
“No.”
I looked directly at her.
“You said, ‘You’ll survive.'”
She remembered.
I could tell.
The officer could too.
