Denise looked stunned.
“How much?”
When he told her, her mouth dropped open.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I picked up my coffee again.
“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.”
