I waddled across the gritty downtown street, simultaneously pushing my daughter’s wheelchair and leaning on it for support for my aching back and baby-heavy belly. My husband carried her backpack and held our son’s hand. We cut across a parking lot, angling towards our van, parked in one of the few handicapped spaces available downtown.
A huge shiny SUV with pimpin’ gold alloy wheels sat in driveway of the parking lot, waiting for someone to back out of a space. As we walked in front of him, he laid on his horn.
Elli lurched in her wheelchair, then began scream-sobbing.
Scott crouched down immediately, grasping her hands and putting his face close to hers, murmuring peace and comfort.
I clenched my fist and roared at the entitled driver, “Did you have to honk your horn?!?!? Do you see what you did?!?!?”
Scott’s face paled, and he grabbed my arm. “Have you lost your mind?”
We scuttled the remaining several yards to the van as I heaved angry outrage out and tried to inhale calm.
P.S. I can chuckle about this story now.