My wife managed to crash the car again today, and by the time the police arrived, she was already worked up, pacing beside the dented bumper and pointing angrily at the other vehicle. She insisted the driver was completely at fault, claiming he had been on his phone and casually drinking a can of beer like nothing had happened. Her frustration filled the scene, and for a moment, it almost sounded convincing.

I looked over at the other car and had to do a double take. Inside sat a man slouched in the driver’s seat, a phone resting on his lap, holding what appeared to be a drink. The whole scene seemed oddly calm for someone who had just been in an accident. Meanwhile, the police officer stood nearby, taking notes, his expression carefully controlled as if he were holding something back.

After listening to my wife’s heated explanation, the officer paused, took a slow breath, and then looked at her with a straight face. “Ma’am,” he said evenly, “you hit a parked car.” The words landed like a brick. My wife froze instantly, her anger evaporating into confusion. Before she could respond, the officer added, barely containing a smile, that the “driver” she was blaming was actually a cardboard cutout used for training purposes.

The realization turned my wife bright red, and an awkward silence followed. She tried to recover with a weak excuse, mumbling that the figure had looked reckless. The officer finally let a small grin slip and reassured her that situations like this happen more often than people think. I did my best to stay composed, but the absurdity of it all lingered. Needless to say, the ride home was painfully quiet.