By Doreen Isaak (Calgary, AB)

I push the grocery shopping cart towards the car.  I am tired and unhappy.  I aim it in the direction of the car and let it go.  It's downhill.  Oops!  It rams the back left corner of the car, and punches a jagged hole, like a stone thrown hard against a sheet of ice, into the fibreglass just above the bumper.  Eric will be mad.  Oh well, who cares.  He is so uptight about things.  Tanya, my fourteen year old daughter, silently glares at me in disapproval.  She is her father's daughter.

That evening, Eric's face burns red as he demands an explanation.  I say nothing.  I glance at Tanya, who is staring at me.  I ignore them both.

That is not a cheap fix, Eric says coldly, it will likely cost $1,200 out of my own pocket.

I don't care.  I don't believe him.  It's a company car and company insurance will pay for it.  He mutters something about it looking like it had been rammed with the corner of a shopping cart.  Tanya silently slides out of the room, still staring at me.

A few days later, I open the garage door and walk around my own car before backing it out of the garage.  Tanya walks beside me.  Her eyes drop to the area above the bumper.  I follow her gaze and see a jagged hole, the same size as the one in Eric's car.  I look at her.  She stares back silent, self-righteous, superior.

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