Then, two weeks later after dropping my niece off at her home in Westdale, I backed out of her laneway onto the narrow street and BANG. I backed right into a car parked on the opposite side of the street.
My stomach felt sick, considerably sicker than two weeks previous. My first impulse was to pretend that this hadn’t happened and drive off. But it had, and I knew I would have difficulty living with myself as a hit-and-runner. I pulled back into the driveway, found some paper in my purse and wrote, “Sorry, I’m the one who backed into your car. I wrote my name and number. I tucked it under the windshield wiper.
That was two weeks ago. The damaged-car owner hasn’t as yet phoned. The police haven’t phoned. Every time the phone rings, my heart races.
We are driving a van with identical dents in the left and right corners of the bumper. But, as my husband likes to point out, the left dent is just a tad deeper.