Jane was seriously stressing. She was late for work, the babysitter was late to watch her two-year-old son Sam, and now she couldn’t find her car keys. It had just been one of those mornings.
“I had them right here in my purse,” Jane said to no one in particular. “But now, of course, they’ve vanished. Oh, life--why do you do this to me?”
Sam giggled, oblivious to Jane’s inner turmoil. She turned to him, looking at his face of youthful innocence. “So, you’re already plotting against me? At your age?”