Two weeks passed.
I’d just finished a 12-hour shift at the hospital. All I wanted was to get home, shower, and fall face-first into my bed.
When the doors opened, I immediately reliazed the sounds of chaos before I even saw them.
“Mom! Tyler hit me again!”
“I did not! She’s LYING!”
“My head hurts! I think I need stitches!”
“Nobody’s getting stitches, Amber. It’s just a bump.”
Her kids used the bus like a jungle gym: climbing poles, hanging off handles, throwing snack wrappers at each other.
One girl (Amber, I presumed) was holding her forehead and wailing about a head injury that, from what I could see, amounted to nothing more than a tiny red mark.
“Ma’am, could you please have your children sit down? It’s not safe for them to be standing while the bus is moving,” he said sternly.
“Excuse me?” Her voice could’ve cut glass. “Do you have seven kids? No? Then don’t tell me how to parent mine!”
I sat quietly in the back, watching.
I reached the elevator first, pressed the button, and stepped inside.
Behind me, chaos spilled into the lobby. The woman raced forward, kids trailing like ducklings behind her as she marched across the lobby.
“Hold that elevator!” she said loudly.
I politely kept the doors open, ready for a showdown.
She reached the threshold and looked me up and down. “Yeah, you need to move. My stroller’s not squeezing in with you standing there.”