She usually had something warm waiting—she liked to fuss over me after long workdays. If I was lucky, maybe she’d made her creamy baked lasagna, the one with three kinds of cheese that could coax me back to life no matter how bad my day had been.
But that night, when I pulled into the lot at our apartment complex, my small bubble of relief popped instantly.
Someone was in my parking spot.
Now, to anyone else, it might not have seemed like a big deal. Our building had plenty of guest parking spots a little farther down the lot. But space #14 was mine. I’d argued with the landlord for weeks to get it—the one right in front of our staircase, under the lamp that gave me peace of mind when I came home late. It wasn’t just convenience. It was something I had fought for, something I considered part of the rent I paid every month.
