It had been pride.
“I kept thinking, ‘It’s a curb. She doesn’t own the street.'”
“I never said I did.”
“I know.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“Every time you asked, I got more stubborn.”
“Even after I told you about my mother?”
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Her face changed.
“That’s the part I’m most ashamed of.”
I didn’t answer.
“I lost my dad 11 years ago,” she said. “I have a watch of his that nobody else would care about. If somebody treated it like it was replaceable, I’d lose my mind.”
“Then you understand.”
“I do now.”
I appreciated the apology.
But understanding didn’t erase six weeks of disrespect.
“I’m glad you understand,” I said. “But I need something to change.”
“It will.”
“No more washing your car at my curb.”
“No more.”
“And don’t nominate my property for anything without asking.”
