My neighbor waited until we left town to improve something on my property, then showed up smiling with the bill. I let her think I would pay, but Monday morning changed the conversation.
“You should be grateful.”
If you had asked me before that weekend what kind of neighbor Whitney was, I probably would have called her difficult.
Not dangerous.
Not cruel.
Just the kind of person who believed her preferences were facts.
Whitney lived next door to us, and she cared deeply about appearances.
Her flower beds were edged perfectly.
Her porch furniture changed with the seasons.
If somebody left their trash cans near the curb until the afternoon, she noticed.
She always noticed.
I had learned to smile when she made little comments about our yard.
“Your hydrangeas would look better on the other side.”
“Have you ever thought about changing those porch lights?”
“That white fence really shows dirt.”
Most of the time, I ignored her.
The fence, especially, seemed to bother her.
It was ours.
It ran along the property line and wrapped around our backyard.
It was white when we bought the house, and I liked it that way.
Maybe it wasn’t fashionable.
Maybe it needed cleaning every spring.
But it was our fence.
I never imagined that distinction would become important.
We got back from ten days in Florida at half past midnight.
Two kids asleep in the back, four bags, and I didn’t look at anything except the front door.
I didn’t see the fence.
My husband, Derek, carried our younger child inside while I woke our oldest enough to get him upstairs.
Everyone was sunburned, overtired, and sick of airports.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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