The Almost Home Invasion

I meant to post a month ago, but lost track of time.

I’m teaching two of my sons how to drive. This is, without a doubt, the most difficult thing about being a parent. For their entire lives, I kept them safe when they were in a vehicle. Now I’m putting them behind the wheel. At the mercy of other drivers. I don’t know if you’ve seen how people drive these days. Like every traffic light is the green flag at a NASCAR race. Like their driving at the Indy 500 if there’s more than one lane. Like rules don’t exist.

Pictured are the tulips I got for my birthday.

I bought a sticker for the back window of the car. “NEW DRIVER. PLEASE BE PATIENT.”

We’ve witnessed drivers back away and give a roomy space cushion, so I’m assuming it works. At least it does for drivers with some sense. We’ve also witnessed others ride our bumper.

I keep telling my boys to ignore them. Drive slow to get comfortable with controlling a vehicle. Go slow to get the right positioning around corners. Those other guys will go around. But you know how it is… Objects in mirror are closer than they appear… It’s difficult.

***

One afternoon last week, I heard the back door open and a voice call out. Exactly what she said I don’t know because the dog was barking and running into the kitchen, claws scraping on the hardwood and vinyl floors.

I was in the bedroom. I thought it was my youngest son, home early from school. It was only 1:30, but I knew he was planning to come home with a friend so they could work on a project. I figured they’d decided to skip their last class.

“You’re home early,” I called as I headed for the kitchen. We’re in a bungalow, so the bedrooms are down a short hall from the kitchen and front room.

Through the back door I saw a woman in an orange tank top standing in my back yard. She headed for the front of the house.

When I got to the front door—just a few steps away— a dark haired woman was opening the door and coming inside.

I grabbed the door and stepped forward, forcing her to step outside. Her friend in the orange shirt was at the other end of the porch.

I asked them what they were doing.

They exchanged glances and gave me the address they were looking for. I told them that’s the road that runs along my backyard.

They said their GPS brought them to the building out back.

That’s our garage.

They exchanged glances again and asked if I knew which house was the address they were looking for.

Somewhere on the back road, I said.

They stared at me like I was lying to them. I waited, wondering if I would have to call the police.

Oh, they said. They left.

I watched from the kitchen window as they got into a big old green van and drove down the street to the farm behind us. Through the trees I saw them get out and I heard their voices carried on the wind through my open window. They talked to someone or maybe to each other; I couldn’t see who.

They were only there for a few minutes before they drove away.

They never apologized for getting the wrong house.

They never knocked.

They didn’t back away until the very end. Their body language showed no apology.

They didn’t act like they’d made an honest mistake.

They opened my doors and stepped inside— they chose crime. That’s not an honest mistake.

Good thing I wasn’t in the shower.

***

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