My seven-year-old daughter exposed the secret my beautiful neighbor and I had been pretending not to notice for two months.
She did it with a juice box in one hand, chalk dust on her knees, and the kind of fearless honesty only children and judges seem to have.
“Miss Elise,” Sophie called across the fence, loud enough for God and half the block to hear, “why do you always watch my dad mow the lawn?”
The mower died in my hands.
