A stranger kept taking my parking spot, leaving notes with his phone number on the windshield. He never explained when I called—just moved his car and vanished into the night. Something felt off. The day I learned who he was, my world shifted.
The office lights burned my eyes after a ten-hour shift that Tuesday evening. My shoulders ached, my head throbbed, and all I wanted was to sink into the couch next to my wife, Sofía. Maybe she’d made her tamales, the ones with extra salsa that always lifted my mood.
I get home around 6:30 p.m. every evening. Our apartment complex assigns one parking space per unit—ours is #27, right in front of our building. I fought hard for that spot.
So when I pulled in and saw a black Mercedes parked there like it belonged, I was furious.
“Seriously?” I muttered, my keys digging into my palm.
I stormed over to confront the driver, but a white paper caught my eye, fluttering under the windshield wiper in the evening breeze.
I unfolded it. The handwriting was neat: “Sorry for taking your spot! Back soon. Call if I’m in your way: 555-****.”
I stared at the number, confused. Who takes someone’s spot and leaves their phone number?
I dialed before I could stop myself. One ring. Two. Then he answered.
“Hello?”
“You’re in my spot. Number 27.”
“My apologies. I’ll move it now.”
That was it. No explanation, no excuses.
Minutes later, I watched from across the lot as a figure stepped out of my building. Baseball cap low, hoodie zipped, sunglasses on despite the fading light.
He slid into the Mercedes and drove off without a glance my way.
“That was… odd,” I said to the empty air, but I parked my car in #27 and let it go.
“You won’t believe this, Sofía!” I said over dinner, twirling rice around my fork.
She looked up, her dark eyes curious. “What happened?”
“Some guy took my parking spot! Left a note with his number. I called, and he just moved. No explanation. Weird, right?”
“That’s kind of polite, don’t you think?” she said, smiling. “At least he gave you a way to fix it.”
“Polite? He stole my spot!”
“But he moved when you asked. Maybe he’s just forgetful.”
“Maybe,” I said, though something felt off.
It wasn’t a one-time thing. The same Mercedes, same spot, same note—always that neat handwriting and number. Twice, sometimes three times a week, always after my longest workdays.
Every time I called, the mystery man appeared within minutes. Same cap, hoodie, sunglasses. He’d nod, drive off, and vanish like a shadow.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I told Sofía one evening, pacing our living room. “It’s like he’s doing it on purpose.”
She was curled up with a book. “Maybe he’s just teasing you, Diego.”
“It’s driving me crazy,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “I’m starting to lose it.”
“Relax, it’s just parking. He moves when you call, right? What’s the big deal?”
“It’s my spot, Sofía. I earned it. I fought Mr. Sánchez for it.”
“You’re overthinking it. Maybe he’s just bad at parking.”
Saturday morning was gray and drizzly. Sofía announced she was meeting her friend Carla for brunch.
“We might hang out after,” she said brightly. “Girls’ day!”
“Have fun,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I’ve got that client meeting in Franklin, so I’ll be out most of the day.”
“Text me later?” she asked.
“Of course.”
But twenty minutes after she left, my boss called. The meeting was canceled. “Enjoy your day off, Diego!”
I decided to hit the grocery store instead, grabbing snacks and Sofía’s favorite churros for a lazy Saturday.
The parking lot was chaos, cars crammed together. I was about to give up when I saw it: the black Mercedes, parked crooked near the store entrance.
I checked the license plate, hands shaking. It was him. The mystery man. Here.
“What are the odds?” I whispered, a chill settling in my stomach. “Is he… following me?”
I circled the lot, watching the Mercedes, glancing at the store entrance every few minutes.
Then he appeared. Tall, same cap and hoodie, no sunglasses this time. I saw his face clearly. And he wasn’t alone.
“Sofía?” I gasped.
My wife walked beside him, laughing at something he said. Her hair was loose, her face bare, glowing in a way I hadn’t seen in months. They were holding hands.
“No. This can’t be,” I whispered, praying it was a mistake.
They walked to the Mercedes like it was routine. Sofía slid into the passenger seat as he held the door.
I followed them, hoping for an explanation. Maybe they were friends. Maybe it was a prank.
But they drove to our apartment complex. Straight to #27.
I parked down the street, watching through my rearview mirror. He tucked a note under the wiper, same as always. Then they walked to our building, hand in hand, disappearing inside.
I sat in my car, hands trembling so hard I could barely hold the wheel. The pieces clicked together. The note wasn’t for him—it was for me. A signal.
When I called, he knew I was home. He’d leave. Sofía would be ready with an excuse—showering, on the phone, anything.
I’d been their alarm system.
I didn’t go upstairs. I couldn’t face them, not yet. The sight of Sofía’s hand in his, their easy laughter, burned into my mind. Instead, I drove around for an hour, the jasmine-scented breeze doing little to calm the storm in my chest. I needed a plan, something smarter than a shouting match.
Over the next few days, I acted as if nothing had changed. Sofía was nervous, glancing at me like she sensed something, but I kept my routine: work, dinner, small talk. Meanwhile, I planned.
I knew Sofía and Juan relied on their parking note system to avoid suspicion. So I turned it against them. I contacted the apartment complex’s office, posing as a concerned tenant, and reported “frequent unauthorized parking” in spot #27. I provided Juan’s license plate number, saying it was disrupting residents. The office issued a warning: one more violation, and the car would be towed.
Next, I invited Sofía’s family and our mutual friends, including Carla, for a “surprise dinner” at our apartment on Saturday. I told Sofía it was to celebrate her recent promotion, a lie to ensure she’d be there. I coordinated with Carla, who was shocked to learn about the affair and eager to help.
That evening, I left work early, knowing Juan would likely take #27 again. Sure enough, the Mercedes was there, note tucked under the wiper. I called the apartment office from a burner phone, reporting the “unauthorized vehicle.” Within an hour, a tow truck arrived, hauling the Mercedes away while Sofía and Juan were still inside our apartment, unaware.
As guests arrived, I played the perfect host, serving tamales and pouring drinks. Sofía grew uneasy, checking her phone, likely wondering why Juan hadn’t texted her about my arrival. Carla kept her distracted, chatting loudly about the “promotion.”
When everyone was gathered, I raised a glass. “To Sofía,” I said, smiling. “For teaching me the value of trust—and the cost of breaking it.”
The room went quiet. Sofía’s face paled. I pulled out my phone and projected a photo I’d taken at the grocery store: Sofía and Juan, hand in hand, laughing by the Mercedes.
“Sofía’s been parking in someone else’s spot,” I said calmly. “And not just mine. Her friend Juan’s car was just towed from #27. Seems they’ve been using it as a signal to hide something from all of us.”
Gasps rippled through the room. Sofía stammered, “Diego, this isn’t—”
“Save it,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ve already moved my things to a new place. The lease is in your name now, Sofía. Good luck explaining this to your family.”
I walked out, leaving her to face the stunned faces of her parents, siblings, and Carla. Juan, stranded without his car, slipped out the back, but the damage was done. By morning, Sofía’s social media was flooded with messages from friends who’d heard the story.
I settled into my new studio across town, with a parking spot all my own. No notes, no games. The silence was heavy at times, but it was honest. After everything, honesty felt like freedom.
Freedom isn’t always a triumph. Sometimes it’s just breathing again, knowing you’ve reclaimed your space. For me, that was enough.
