The security guard’s voice trembled when he called me.
“Ma’am, you need to come to level three right now.”
I was seven months pregnant, still holding the ultrasound image of my daughter’s face as I stepped out of the maternity clinic. Just ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the monitor, listening as the doctor reassured me that everything looked perfect. But by the time I reached the parking garage, that fragile sense of perfection had completely vanished.
My silver SUV looked like it had been attacked by a mob.
Every window was shattered. All four tires had been slashed. Red paint streamed down the windshield like blood. Words had been carved into the hood so deeply that the metal curled along the edges.