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Yard Sale Nightmare

  I hate having a yard sale. The kids and my husband have to inspect every item I want to sell to make sure it’s not something they can’t live without, even if it’s been on the floor of their closet for the last three years.

  As I was carrying out a box of old toys and a strange-looking pair of green and white tennis shoes, my son walked by. He grabbed the box, peered inside, and retrieved his Ninja Turtle doll.

  “Mom, you’re selling my childhood!” he lamented.

  A wave of guilt washed over me. What kind of mother am I?

  “Do you think we can get a buck for it?” he said as he tossed it back in the box.

  After three weeks of working night and day, the sale was finally over. When I counted my money I had just enough to take all seven of us out for pizza (as long as the kids agreed to drink water). Just as we were going out the door the phone rang. It was the mother of my son’s friend

  "Zach left his tennis shoes at your house the other night. Would you send them to school with Justin on Monday?”

  My stomach sank to the floor. 

  “What color are they?”

  “Green and white,” she says.

  I knew those shoes didn’t look familiar.

  Thankfully she took the news well. She even let Zach come back and visit again. 

  Sometime later Zach spent the night, and the next morning Bill took the boys to a basketball game. His old farm truck caught on fire. After the flames were extinguished and the fire department dispersed, a state trooper kindly offered the boys a ride to their game. Justin said Zach’s mom didn’t seem alarmed when they arrived in a trooper’s car. But he did notice her checking to see if Zach had his tennis shoes on.

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