After he died, I stopped hosting.
I stopped attending club events as well.
Seeing all those cars without Robert among them hurt more than I expected.
So the driveway became quiet.
Linda apparently saw that emptiness as an invitation.
The first time she parked there, I didn’t care.
The fifth time, I did.
“Linda, could you please use your own driveway?”
“I’m only going across the street.”
“That’s fine, but this is still my driveway.”
She moved.
The next week, she did it again.
Eventually, I stopped asking nicely.
One afternoon, I found her SUV there while carrying groceries home.
I walked next door.
“Linda, we’ve talked about this.”
She sighed.
“I’ll move it later.”
“I need you to move it now.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my driveway.”
“Carol, you have one car and enough space for six.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You barely use it anyway.”
There was that sentence.
Again.
As though ownership expired when something wasn’t being used enough for Linda’s liking.
I put up the sign the next day.
She parked directly beneath it that weekend.
I should have done something then.
