PAGE 7
Around lunchtime, Diane called.
“Mom, you sound too cheerful. What are you doing?”
“Just tidying up the yard, sweetheart.”
“You’re plotting something. I can hear it.”
“Only if Monica gives me a reason to.”
“Mom…”
I laughed.
For a moment, as I watered my tomatoes, I wondered if I had become ridiculous.
I was sixty-four years old and spending my afternoon getting ready to catch my neighbor trespassing.
Was I being petty?
Or had I finally decided I was tired of being invisible?
I chose the second answer.
My husband used to tease me about that contradiction.
I could send back a restaurant order without hesitation.
I’d argue with a mechanic who overcharged Diane.
I’d stand up for anyone who needed me.
Anyone except myself.
Somewhere along the way, “keeping the peace” had become permission for other people to decide what I was supposed to tolerate.
I looked toward the garage.
“Not tonight,” I whispered.
After sunset, I turned off the porch light, poured myself a glass of iced tea, and waited inside where I had a clear view of the driveway.
All Monica had to do was stay off my property.
But I had a feeling she wouldn’t.
