I walked outside that Wednesday morning expecting to see my silver Honda Civic gleaming in the early sunlight, right where I’d parked it the night before in my assigned spot. Instead, I found an empty rectangle of pavement, a few oil stains, and a confusion that would soon transform into something much colder and clearer. My keys were already in my hand, my work bag slung over my shoulder, my coffee getting cold in its travel mug.
I was running five minutes late, which meant I was already mentally calculating the fastest route to avoid morning traffic on Interstate 270.
But my car wasn’t there. For a moment, I just stood there stupidly, staring at the empty space like maybe if I blinked hard enough, the car would materialize.
Maybe I’d parked somewhere else? Maybe I was in the wrong section?
But no—this was definitely parking spot 47, the same spot I’d been using every single day for six months at my apartment complex in Columbus, close enough that I could see it from my living room window.
The spot was unmistakably mine, marked with fading white paint and a number that matched my lease agreement. My first coherent thought was theft. My second was confusion—how does someone steal a car from a secured lot without anyone noticing?
My third was rapidly escalating panic as I realized I had exactly fifteen minutes to get to work for a meeting I couldn’t miss.
I was pulling out my phone to call the apartment office when it started buzzing in my hand. Mom.
Calling at seven-thirty in the morning, which was unusual enough to make my stomach drop. “Hey, sweetie!” Her voice came through bright and cheerful, that particular tone of forced casualness that mothers use when they’re about to tell you something they know you won’t like.
“Mom, I can’t talk right now.
My car is missing—”
“Oh! Yes, about that.” She said it so casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “That’s actually why I’m calling.
Your father and I were talking last night about Jessica’s situation, and we realized she really needs a reliable vehicle for her new job.
We remembered you gave us that spare key for emergencies, so we drove over around midnight and picked it up. We didn’t want to wake you!
Anyway, we dropped it off at Jessica’s apartment this morning, and she’s so grateful, honey. She actually cried.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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