When my husband and I bought our first home, the phone company gave us a new telephone number. The number we were given was recycled – meaning, it had previously belonged to someone else. That “someone else” happened to be a girl named LaShawn.
Within a few days of receiving our new telephone number, it became clear that being the recipients of LaShawn’s old number was going to be a problem. Our first inkling occurred around 3 in the morning, when the sound of our ringing phone jarred me from sleep. I frantically jumped out of bed, fearing someone was calling with an emergency.
“LaShawn baby,” the voice growled, “It’s Tyrone. Where you at?”
“LaShawn?” I repeated, feeling instant relief. Everyone was okay. “I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.”
I was climbing back into bed when Tyrone called a second time. Tyrone was clearly disappointed when I answered, and…
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