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It was 7:45 PM on a Tuesday. The wailing through the shared fence had been going on for three hours straight. Not just crying—screaming.
I’m 72. I served my country, I paid my taxes, and I paid off my mortgage. All I want is peace.
Since she moved in four months ago, peace has been extinct. No husband in sight. Just her, a rusted-out sedan, and that kid.
I had my speech ready. I was going to threaten to call the HOA. I was going to mention the noise ordinance. I was ready to be the villain because I just wanted the quiet I felt I earned.
The door swung open before I could pound a second time.
I opened my mouth to let it rip, but the words turned to dust in my throat.
She looked like she had been hit by a truck. She was trembling. Wearing a stained oversized t-shirt, eyes swollen shut from crying, hair matted to her forehead.
