The roasting pan had a dent in one corner.
The cooler smelled like fruit punch for a week.
When I mentioned any of it, Denise always had an answer.
« Oh, I meant to wipe that down. »
Or, « It was already kind of scratched, wasn’t it? »
Or my favorite, « You know how kids are. »
Apparently her children were responsible for every missing lid, stain, dent, and late return in a five-mile radius.
I should’ve stopped lending things long before the mixer.
I know that.
The problem is that I hate saying no.
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