“I believe it.”
“The contractors are charging rescheduling fees.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Materials are sitting there.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I thought about that.
The honest answer was complicated.
I was not enjoying her losing money.
I was not enjoying a neighborhood dispute.
But I did feel something close to relief, because consequences had finally arrived in a language she respected.
“I’m not enjoying it,” I said. “I’m just not surprised.”
For a moment, she looked past me toward the orange stakes that were still visible through the side yard.
Then she asked the first useful question of the whole week.
“What do you want?”
I invited her to sit on the porch.
Cars passed.
Kids rode bikes.
Someone down the street was mowing a lawn like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
I asked whether she had verified ownership before removing the fence.
She said no.
I asked whether she had asked me.
She said no.
I asked whether her contractor had required proof before touching it.
She said no again.
“Then here we are,” I said.
She stared at the street for a long time.
“I honestly thought it wasn’t a big deal.”
That was probably the truest thing she had said.
Most preventable problems do not begin with a villain speech.
They begin with convenience.
They begin with someone telling herself that asking permission will slow things down, that the other person will probably be fine, that the paperwork will probably match the assumption.
