fter my fifth damaged order, I finally watched the delivery van from my window. What the driver did made every strange customer-service call suddenly make sense.
The driver got out of the van.
And I immediately understood why every customer-service person had become so careful the second I mentioned him.
He had one arm.
Not one arm tucked into a jacket.
Not an injured shoulder.
His left sleeve was pinned neatly above the elbow.
I stood at my kitchen window holding a coffee mug and felt about three inches tall.
“Oh.”
That was all I said.
Because suddenly every conversation I’d had with the delivery company sounded different in my head.
“Our driver on that route has an excellent record.”
“He’s very well regarded.”
“I’d be careful making accusations.”
I’d thought they were protecting some careless employee.
Now I wondered if they thought I was blaming a disabled man for not being able to handle packages properly.
Except there was still one problem.
Four of my last five fragile deliveries had arrived broken.
And while I was feeling guilty at the window, the driver opened the back of his van.
What happened next made me put my coffee down.
My name is Karen. I’m 42.
My husband, Luke, and I have two kids, twelve and nine.
We order too much online.
I’m not proud of it.
But between work, school, sports, and the fact that taking my youngest into a home-goods store somehow turns into a 45-minute debate about novelty lamps, delivery saves my sanity.
For years, we’d had almost no problems.
Then, over about six weeks, anything breakable started arriving destroyed.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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