It had already been one of those days.

You know the sort: late to work, spilled coffee on my shirt, toddler crying in the car over the incorrect granola bar. The bumper

issue, naturally, was not assisting. Hoping no one would see it,

I’d been driving around with it half-dangling for weeks. Spoiler alert: they saw.

Seeing a folded sheet of paper hidden beneath my windshield wiper made me immediately moan.I said, “Great.” A ticket now.

But when I opened it, I froze.

It was not a good. Nor a grievance. Or one of those passive-aggressive messages claiming my automobile was a “eyesore for the neighborhood.”

The bill was for fifty dollars.

Along with a handwritten note reading:

Your car lacks a front bumper, I noticed. Maybe this helps somewhat.
Yours truly, Someone attempting to improve this year.

I just stood there, holding it, blinking like an idiot in the middle of the grocery store lot as others went past as though nothing happened.

I scanned the area. Nobody visible. No camera crew on standby to capture a response. Just the sound of my youngster in the

backseat whispering, “Mommy? Are you crying with happiness?

The strange thing is, though.

I brought the note home. Put it in the junk drawer. And this morning, when I went to show it to my sister…

There was yet another one.

Varied handwriting. Identical note.

Initially, I believed perhaps someone in my family was pulling some kind of joke. My sister insisted she hadn’t touched

anything; my husband was just as perplexed. I still had the impression, however, that something larger was happening. The

second note was not on my car; it was in my home. That implied whatever was doing this knew more than they ought to.

I choose to ignore it totally and wish it went gone, like any reasonable person would.

Spoiler alert: It didn’t.

Two days later, I discovered a third message at work. This time, it was taped to the edge of my desk with another $50 note. The note said:

Sometimes people need reminders. Many people require reminders.

This one affected me more than the rest. It was so… intimate. Like whoever was leaving these notes knew precisely where I was in life. That was awful.