was watering the grass.
He stepped out of his car and raised one hand.
I returned the gesture.
We weren’t friends.
Maybe we never would be.
But the disrespect had stopped.
And I no longer felt the need to prove something every time I saw him.
For six months, I’d wanted Richard to understand that my property wasn’t his to use.
Eventually, he did.
But it had taken a concrete wall, a damaged Mercedes, and a ruined porch for both of us to learn something important.
Being right about a
