Not to stop me.
Just enough to remind me the boys were upstairs.
I lowered my voice.
“Do you know what Oliver asked me last week?”
Denise said nothing.
“He asked if his teacher thought he was naughty because his name kept going on the late chart.”
Something changed in her face.
Not enough.
But something.
“He asked me if we should leave home earlier because of you.”
Denise looked away.
“He is six.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I don’t have children.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t understand clocks.”
Mark coughed into his hand.
I almost smiled.
Denise looked at him.
“Are you going to let her speak to me like this?”
Mark stared at her.
“You’re standing at our front door complaining that my wife finally dealt with a problem you refused to stop causing.”
She went quiet.
Then she said, “I just think involving authorities was excessive.”
I answered, “I think 22 mornings was excessive.”
That ended the conversation.
Or I thought it did.
The next morning, Denise’s car was gone from our driveway.
So was the next.
And the next.
For one glorious week, nothing happened.
Then Monday came.
At 7:20, I opened the front door.
Silver Corsa.
Across our driveway.
Again.
I actually laughed.
Not angry laughter.
Disbelief.
Mark came up behind me.
“No way.”
“Way.”
He looked at the car.
Then at me.
“Is she insane?”
“I think she thinks we won’t do it twice.”
This time I didn’t knock.
I didn’t photograph it for 22 minutes.
I took one photo.
Then I made one call.
The parking enforcement officer arrived before Denise did.
She came outside fully dressed this time.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The officer recognized her.
I could tell from his face.
“Morning, madam.”
“This is persecution.”
“No.”
He looked down at his handheld device.
“This appears to be the same access point involved in the previous complaint.”
Denise glared at me.
“I was inside for five minutes.”
I said nothing.
The officer asked, “Why did you park here after already receiving a penalty for obstructing this driveway?”
Denise opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
That was the moment.
Not the first Monday.
The second one.
The moment she finally realized the problem was no longer whether I had enough energy to confront her.
There was now a process.
Evidence.
Dates.
Consequences.
She could roll her eyes at me.
She could not roll her eyes at paperwork.
