Dear Chevy Equinox driver,
I wish you had even a glimmer of the wreckage you’ve caused in my world.
Beyond the obvious crumpled bumper, shattered headlight, mashed quarter panel and the mirror hanging limply from my door.
My hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly dial 911. (Somehow, I forgot to just push that OnStar button on the mirror.) Putting your hands into my car on my arm and telling me, “I didn’t see you!” was The. Second. Wrong. Thing. To. Do.
If you knew me, you’d have a sense that, “Take you hands off me” was the mildest response I could muster.
If I’d been alone in the car, I might have reacted differently. But I wasn’t.
My Darling Bebe was in the car. And it was rush hour. In heavy traffic. On the Interstate. And it was raining.
And you just decided to change lanes —
— and you kept going even after colliding, pushing my care into the next lane with a shrieking grinding wail.
You were fortunate: the exit lane to my right was empty.
You were fortunate: we were not injured.
At least not physically.
You were able to drive away when the state police finished with you.
I wish you had to spend twice the amount of time I did going to the tow yard, on the phone with my truly wonderful insurance company, and picking up a rental car.
I wish you drove an orphan make of car that required service by a facility 20 miles away where your garage-door opener and phone charger are now held hostage.
I wish you had to wait weeks for an appointment with a specialist because someone else’s costly carelessness meant you couldn’t make your scheduled slot.
I wish you had to spend the next couple of weeks driving an unfamiliar rental car that is not what you’re used to driving.
I wish you had to transport a Christmas tree in the aforementioned rental sedan instead of your little SUV.
I wish you had to collect out-of-pocket receipts, fax forms to the body shop and hope your child really is okay.
I hope next time you actually turn your head on your neck and LOOK before swerving into someone else’s car and turning their daily routine into wreckage.
I hope your hands shake as you hold the ticket the state police issued.
No matter what the little check you have to write, it isn’t enough.
You have incurred a mother’s wrath.