“I won’t.”
She nodded toward my house.
“I’d also like to replace anything I damaged.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t want new hydrangeas.”
Her expression fell.
“They’re from my mother.”
“I know.”
“I want to try to save them.”
“Then let me pay for someone who knows how.”
That surprised me.
It didn’t erase what she’d done.
Still, it was the first offer she’d made that was about fixing something instead of winning.
“Alright.”
Two days later, a local gardener inspected the plants.
The damage wasn’t as severe as I’d feared.
The affected leaves needed trimming, and the soil around the curbside plants needed to be flushed carefully over time.
Danielle paid the bill.
More importantly, she stopped washing her car at my curb.
The next Saturday, I woke at 8:16 a.m.
I listened.
There was nothing.
At 8:41 a.m., the street was still quiet.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.
A month later, I was outside deadheading the hydrangeas when Danielle walked over.
She stopped at the edge of my driveway.
“Can I come over?”
The question was so ordinary that it took me a moment to understand why it mattered.
She was asking.
“Sure.”
She walked toward the flower bed but didn’t step into it.
