Fifty Years in One Home, and the Day I Finally Had to Stand My Ground

Trying to Be Reasonable

I didn’t want trouble. I never have.

So I took my cane, straightened my sweater, and walked carefully across my porch and down the path I had swept a thousand times before. Every step reminded me of my age, but I kept my posture steady. I wasn’t angry yet. Just determined to be heard.

The woman answered the door. She looked past me, not at me, as though I were an inconvenience interrupting her day.

I explained calmly that their vehicle was parked on my property and asked if they could please move it.

She sighed. Loudly.

She said they owned three vehicles and only had room for two in their driveway. Then she looked at my cane and said something that still echoes in my mind.

“You don’t even drive anymore,” she said. “So what’s the problem?”

Her tone wasn’t curious. It wasn’t apologetic.

It was dismissive.

Her husband appeared behind her, glanced at me, and waved his hand in the air as if shooing away an insect. He said they’d move it later, then closed the door before I could respond.

I stood there on their porch, feeling smaller than I had in years.

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