I went to her door. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t accuse. I simply asked her to explain.
She laughed.
She told me it was “just trash.” She said I had all the time in the world. She suggested I might as well clean up hers along with mine. And then she glanced at my wheelchair and smirked—as if my body, my time, and my care for this place made me lesser. As if my yard existed for her convenience.
I left without arguing. Not angry—focused. I’ve learned that some people confuse patience with weakness. I don’t.
What she didn’t know was that I’ve lived next to that house for more than thirty years. The owner isn’t just my landlord neighbor—he’s my oldest friend. And long before that confrontation, I had already documented everything. Photos. Dates. Times. Footprints preserved in snow. Weeks of quiet evidence. I sent it all to him with a brief note.
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