It's going to be one hell of a day. You woke up at 5:30am to get ready for a big sales meeting. Your boss had you review the Powerpoint slides for the fourth time last night, and you were already exhausted then, not to mention now.
The morning routine is nothing new to you either: little Chelsea must be fed, coffee must be made, and your suit must be ironed. All of this is a blur.
You rush out the door an hour later, kid in tow. En route to the daycare you get a call from your boss; he wants to make triple sure you are on your way. He makes you rehearse your presentation for the meeting… twice. You feel like you are going to puke, but you finally get there on time.
After fighting to stay awake and alert during a mortifyingly dull 4 hours of final negotiations, the prospective clients finally accept your offer. You are overjoyed, not at the thought of having won a large contract for your firm, but simply because you think the worst part of the day is over. It is not.
After all the hands are shaken and contracts signed, the new clients treat you to lunch. Why yes, a ham sandwich on rye would suit you just fine, as would that bottle of deliciously cold water, so refreshing in the July heat. You joke and make small talk for a while, but soon it is time to leave. You check your cellphone, which you thoughtfully turned to "Silent" after getting out of the car this morning. There is a message.
It's from the daycare. They want to know where your daughter is.
It's about 50 feet from the conference room to the stairs, and just 3 flights to the lobby, where another 50 feet or so stand between you and the door. You are in the parking lot in 10 seconds, and to your Civic in another 3, but by then you are hours too late.
In your frantic sprint to the car, you leave your briefcase, keys inside, in the conference room. A desperate search for a way to break the driver's side rear window ends in you running back to the building and grabbing a heavy stone from the landscaping. By then your colleagues have emerged to see why you ran out on them. They will wish their curiosity had been more merciful.
Chelsea is pale and lifeless. Her tiny fists are clamped around wads of her own hair, the rest of which is lying in clumps on the scalding black leather interior. For one all-too-brief moment, your mind cannot bring itself to recognize the scene in front of you. This must be someone else's car. This must be someone else's child. This must be someone else's fault.
Stories like this happen about 20 times every year. Sometimes the parent is criminally charged, other times they are not. More about this soon. (via)
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