Funny story. My son went missing in Target and they wouldn’t give him back to me.
He was three years old, I lost sight of him for a millisecond and (as I discovered later) a Target employee did the right thing and took him to the information counter.
It took the store about two minutes to announce over the loudspeaker that they had found a little boy, just as I was making my way over to report him missing. Imagine my relief as I sprinted from the other side of the store, hoping it was him.
At the information desk, I asked, “Where’s the little boy?” The lady indicated to a closed office behind her and said, “He’s in there. But he’s not your son.”
He’s not my son. How would she know?
So I asked her that. Calmly, she repeated, “He’s not your son. Trust me, he looks totally different to you.”
Not calmly, I replied, “Listen, I can’t find my son, so I need to know if that boy is mine, otherwise someone has got him and I need to call the police.” I stared around me thinking that no one else has come to claim this mystery child, so why not let me have a go! I darted behind the counter to slap the woman, oops I mean to see the child for myself. The Target lady stepped in my way but I was too quick – a mum missing a child is wily like that. I opened the office door. There was my beautiful, darling little son. I scooped him up and burst into tears. I stormed out of the office with him and screamed at the woman:
“JUST BECAUSE WE AREN’T THE SAME COLOUR DOESN’T MEAN HE’S NOT MY SON!”
Cue storewide silence.