“I’d rather have that too.”
“Then that’s what we do.”
She nodded.
And we both went inside.
But over the next few weeks, I thought about the situation more deeply.
On the surface, the story was simple.
My neighbor behaved inconsiderately.
I tolerated it.
She publicly insulted me.
I responded.
She understood.
Problem solved.
But underneath that was something less comfortable.
For six months, I had been making a choice too.
Every morning, I cleaned up after Winston and told myself I was being mature.
Patient.
Reasonable.
Neighborly.
Someone who didn’t create unnecessary drama.
Those things were partly true.
But there was another truth I didn’t want to admit.
I was avoiding confrontation.
I told myself my silence was kindness.
Marguerite interpreted it as permission.
She wasn’t waking up each morning thinking, How generous of my neighbor to handle this quietly.
She probably wasn’t thinking about me at all.
My silence had simply taught her that nothing would happen.
And then she stood in a neighborhood meeting and lectured me about responsibility.
That was different.
Six months of dog mess was inconsiderate.
The meeting was deliberate.
She looked at me while saying it because she expected me to remain silent.
