It was a 28-degree morning after a week of “fake spring” here in St. Louis. I had just finished getting the boys ready for childcare when I decided to walk out to the street and start the car to warm it up. I ran back to the house to put on their coats, hats, mittens, then grabbed their backpacks, and opened the front door.
My car is gone.
Immediately, my stomach drops. I call my husband and ask him to share the Air Tag of our vehicle with me. Then I call 911 and calmly try to recollect and answer questions from the operator. I am directed to stay home with my boys and wait for the police officer to come to the house. When he does, I again try to calmly recollect and answer some of the same questions in order to provide the information he needs.
“We believe your vehicle has been involved in an accident nearby. Is there another adult with you at the house?”
“No, my husband is in California for a work trip.”
“I’m gonna need you to ask someone to stay with your children because I’ll need you to come with me to identify the suspect and confirm that the vehicle is yours.”
I knock on a few doors before I finally find a neighbor to stay with the boys. Next thing I know, I’m riding in the back of a police car, emotionally preparing myself for what is about to come. We drive down the road and I see my vehicle surrounded by police cars. While I don’t see any significant damage, I see the airbags beyond the windshield. And at the scene of the accident is a young teenage boy wearing a hoodie – the same boy I saw walking on the sidewalk across the street when I first warmed up my car.
“That’s him. That’s the boy I saw.”
Saying those seven words made me think about the mother on the other side of this situation. How is she going to react when she answers that phone call? My heart gets torn just thinking about it. While I wanted to give myself permission for my anger at the injustice, seeing him standing next to my damaged car filled me with sadness and reminded me that he is still an adolescent boy. He is still the son of a mother.
I experienced every sort of emotion you could imagine that day, just like that of a collision … all within a short 45-minute window of time. I’m so grateful that my most precious cargo, my two boys, were safe with me and not sitting in those car seats when our car was stolen. I’m also grateful for the help of our neighbors, the police officers, the collision repair workers, and our friends for supporting us during a time of crisis.
It’s been a few years since this incident occurred, and with the help of insurance, we have replaced our vehicle. Just another reminder to all the moms out there that material objects can be replaced. Clothes and toys can be replaced … even cars can be replaced.
I still think about the teenage boy I saw that day and wonder what he is up to right now. The one thing I desired the most out of this whole situation was that this might have been a turning point for him. I hope that he has changed and is making better decisions in life, but I will never know. I can only hope.
And I think that hope comes from being a mother … desiring better lives for the children in our city, even if they make mistakes. Because in our shared humanity, we know that our hearts are capable of change.
