I remember his patient voice.
***
Two weeks later, Tyler trampled the flowers we’d planted in Mom’s memory.
“Those were her favorites,” Noah whispered.
“Tyler needs to apologize,” I told Richard.
“For stepping on dirt? Relax, sweetheart.”
I photographed the damage.
Kids will be kids.
“Why don’t you make him pay?” Noah asked.
“Richard has money and connections. We don’t.”
“So he gets away with it again?”
“I’m scared he’ll make our lives harder.”
“That’s not fair.”
Tyler needs to apologize.
“I know.”
Little did I know that I’d soon get the chance to finally make Richard pay for everything he’d done.
***
The following Tuesday, I was packing lunches when a tremendous crash shook our front windows.
Ben screamed. I ran outside.
I’m scared he’ll make our lives harder.
Tyler had driven his oversized electric toy car at full speed into the back of our parked Toyota.
The impact had cracked its old, rust-weakened bumper, bending the metal underneath and leaving the trunk lid slightly misaligned.
