“That’s not entirely unfair.”
I almost laughed.
Then he said something that made the whole thing sadder.
“She thinks backing down means somebody has controlled her.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Her father.”
He hesitated.
“He was difficult. Everything in their house was his way. Denise learned young that if someone told her what to do, giving in meant losing.”
I absorbed that.
Then said, “I’m sorry she grew up like that.”
Paul nodded.
“But?”
“But my six-year-old is not responsible for her childhood.”
His shoulders dropped.
“No.”
“Neither is my job.”
“No.”
“And neither is my driveway.”
“You’re right.”
That was all I needed.
Not a tragic backstory.
Not an excuse.
Just somebody saying I was right to expect access to my own home.
Paul told me he had already arranged for their driveway to be widened.
Apparently Denise had complained about the angle since they moved in.
It would take a few weeks.
Until then, he had told her she could use the road space legally or park behind him and move her car after he left.
“Will she?”
He smiled without humor.
“She will now.”
He was right.
Denise never blocked us again.
For months, she barely looked at me.
Fine.
I didn’t need friendship.
Then one rainy morning in November, I came outside and found her standing near our hedge.
My stomach tightened automatically.
Her car was parked legally outside her own house.
She held an envelope.
“I wanted to give you this.”
I didn’t take it.
“What is it?”
“Nothing weird.”
“That’s reassuring.”
She almost smiled.
Inside was a printed letter.
From the school.
Not my boys’ school.
A different one.
She said, “I started working there.”
