Not little kids you could excuse for not knowing better. These were kids old enough to behave but chose chaos instead.
“Move it!” she’d snap at anyone unlucky enough to be in her way. “We’re coming through!”
The first time I saw her in action, I was waiting for the mail.
Her kids swarmed the lobby, voices bouncing off the walls like ping-pong balls, sneakers screeching on the tile floor.
“Evan! Get down from there!” she shouted, not even glancing at whichever kid was climbing the decorative column. “Chloe, stop pulling your brother’s hair!”
She never actually stopped their behavior. Just yelled about it, as if announcing their chaos made her less responsible for it.
Since then, I’d seen her shove shopping carts aside in the parking lot.
I’d watched her order people out of elevators like they were her private shuttle. Most folks just went along with it. Easier than fighting, I suppose.
But then came that Tuesday.
My grandfather had moved in with me after my grandmother passed.
