I was just coming out of the grocery store. Hands full, tired, baby fussing in the car seat, same routine as always. I wasn’t thinking about anything except getting home before the ice cream melted and hoping today wasn’t the day I’d cry in a parking lot.
Then I saw the envelope tucked under my wiper.
For a second, my stomach dropped. I thought it was a ticket. Or worse, a passive-aggressive note about how crooked I parked.