Every night, someone parked in my spot. Same silver SUV, same excuses. Notes didn’t work. One night, I came home early—tired woman, infant in tow. I let it slide… until she did it again.
Fed up, I blocked her in with my car. The next morning, she knocked, exhausted and trembling, clutching a baby monitor.
“My dad fell last night,” she said. “I need to get him to urgent care, but I’m blocked in.”
Apartment 4C. Mr. Henderson—the grumpy old man I’d complained about—was her dad. Early-onset dementia, COPD. She’d been juggling him, the baby, and exhaustion for weeks.
Guilt hit me. I moved my car, helped them load Mr. Henderson, and let her keep the spot. I started checking in daily—groceries, trash, small chores. Arthur wasn’t grumpy, just trapped in his failing mind. I became an honorary uncle to baby Toby.
One Tuesday, the ambulance came—for Elara. Dehydration, exhaustion, malnutrition. I rode with her, sat by her bed until she woke, laughing through tears when she first asked about the car.
We set up in-home care for Arthur so Elara could rest. A week later, my parking spot was taken—not by a car, but a new ergonomic chair with a note: “Stop walking in the rain.”
I got my spot back, lost my privacy—and gained a family. I realized sometimes the person stealing your parking spot isn’t a villain—they’re just surviving.
Now, we look out for each other. Neighbors, friends, family.
