Diwali Disaster

If this sucks, blame yourself. I'm not the one who's forcing you to read this. But here it is- a true account of one of my Diwali misadventures.
I was delivering sweets to family friends. My mother had sent me to @#$%- no, that isn't censored swearing, it's their unit number that I'm keeping private.- so off I went, a little grumpily, it's true, as I had made a few deliveries earlier that had almost resulted in my sister getting crushed under a car. I quickly went to the desired apartment, and the door was opened by an scruffy, elderly French lady in an apron who I assumed was the maid.
"Excuse me, is ......... auntie home?"
To this, she replied haughtily, drawing herself up,
"No, she doesn't live here. I think that she's my neighbor."
I was naturally mortified. It seemed that she was not the maid, but the house owner!
I scurried off to the opposite apartment like a terrified rat. They had some sort of rangoli design at the front, and I took it as a good sign. A Filipina maid opened the door, and when asked where the desired woman was, I was told that she wasn't home. Undeterred, I asked her if she could give the sweets to auntie. She agreed, and asked for my name. I told her, and set off home, feeling pleased with myself, and cheered that I was done with the hated deliveries.
When I got home, I told my mother that she had given me the wrong address, but luckily her daughter was smart enough to find their home, opposite the French lady's home. At this, my mother leapt up, and said in a voice full of horror and foreboding:
"They don't live in that flat!"
Of course, I protested wildly against that accusation that I of all people had done something wrong. Finally, she convinced me that I really was wrong, and I outright refused to go and take the package away and to its rightful owner. But, lo and behold, an unlikely heroine appeared in the form of my auntie, @#$%^&*#. And no, that wasn't censored swearing either, that was practicing the noble art of keeping a name private.
@#$%^&*# is Filipina, and, assuming that the house owners didn't come home, she would be able to talk us out of the mess I had put us in. Even thought I flatly refused to accompany her, my mother was more insistent than me, and she claimed that the maid would give it back more promptly upon recognizing my beautiful face. So, armed with @#$%^&*#, off I marched to the apartment.
My uncle later commented humorously that what if, upon reaching and ringing the doorbell, the maid opened the door and was caught in mid bite of our lovely sweets? I had laughed at the suggestion but for a while my mind was in turmoil, imagining what would've happened if that had happened.
Anyways, in the elevator, who did I run into but the son of ........ auntie! Upon seeing him, I groaned loudly and collapsed against the elevator wall with a cry of "Oh, I'm so stupid!" When asked why, I narrated my sorry story. He got off on the ..th storey, a storey below the fiasco flats. I deduced, using my Holmes-esque intuition, that he lived directly beneath the French lady's flat.
We reached the wrong- or in this case right- apartment. In a jabbering whirlwind of Tagalog, I was swept down the stairwell, carrying the prized sweets.
I gave them to the boy when he answered the door, saying: "These are the sweets I was talking about. Happy Diwali."
So you can assume that it was a dejected and tired girl that made her way home that fateful Diwali evening.