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I told myself the backyard would be fine. It wasn’t. The lawn I’d coaxed into velvet was flattened and torn to mud. Candy wrappers fluttered through my lavender. My roses—hand-dug, fed, pruned—ripped out by the roots and tossed like weeds. I stood there with my handbag still on my shoulder and felt something inside me go very, very quiet.
I called my sister. She laughed. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a kid’s party. You wouldn’t understand.” When I told her the garden was destroyed and there were stains I could never remove, her voice sharpened. “Maybe you shouldn’t have such high expectations for a house that’s supposed to be lived in. You live alone in a big fancy place. Jason deserved a real party. You don’t even need it.”
I asked if she did it on purpose. She didn’t deny it. “You have no idea how hard it is in a tiny house. Maybe now you’ll get it.”
I hung up before I said something I couldn’t take back. Then I did what people do when the shock wears off: I got to work. I hired a cleaning crew. The tech knelt by my rug and shook his head gently. “We can’t save this.” Three thousand dollars disappeared into repairs and replacements. Landscapers hauled away dead roses and laid new soil. I resealed the pergola. I bought new chairs. I kept the receipts like a ledger of betrayal.
