“Park that piece of junk somewhere else. I don’t want to see it from my balcony.”
Then she walked inside and shut the door.
Three days later, Valerie approached me at the mailbox.
“We need to talk about your vehicle.”
“It’s parked on my property.”
“It’s hideous,” she said.
Then she stepped closer.
“Maybe people like you don’t belong in a neighborhood like this. Normal, wealthy people live here. Not single moms in rusted-out Chevrolets.”
I was furious.
“My daughter and I live here now. You’ll have to get used to the view.”
“We’ll see about that.”
That night, Olivia asked, “Mom, why does that lady hate us?”
“Some people think a nice view is more important than being nice,” I told her. “That’s their problem, not ours.”
But it wasn’t the end.
The next afternoon, Harold came by with cookies.
“Valerie has done this before,” he said. “Two families left because of her.”
Then he lowered his voice.
“Her balcony isn’t permitted. Neither is the stone wall. Some of her statues are on public easement land. I’ve been documenting everything for years.”
“Why?”
“Your dad asked me to keep an eye on things if anything happened to him.”
He handed me the folder.
