That was the first sentence that reached somewhere deeper than anger.
She knew.
Or at least finally understood part of it.
I hope your pool became yours again.
The letter ended.
No request.
No phone number.
No invitation.
The homeowner sat for a long time.
Then went outside.
The pool lights reflected across the water.
His neighbor eventually came through the side gate.
He had given her the code years ago.
She held tea.
“You read it.”
“Yes.”
“Feel better?”
He considered.
“No.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He laughed.
“Why good?”
“Because people put too much work on apologies.”
She sat.
“Sometimes an apology tells the truth.”
“That’s enough.”
He looked at the water.
“She asked if the pool became mine again.”
His neighbor smiled.
“Well?”
He thought.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised him.
Not completely.
The pool had become his again gradually.
Family cookouts returned.
Children splashed.
His sister visited with her twins.
The elderly widow once entered wearing a ridiculous inflatable sun hat.
The homeowner eventually removed one of the cameras after it failed.
He replaced it.
Then years later reduced the system from three backyard cameras to two.
Not because he forgot.
Because two were enough.
The black bag did not appear in his mind every time leaves landed on the deck anymore.
A syringe was again mostly a medical object when he saw one at a doctor’s office.
Recovery did not erase association.
It loosened ownership.
The homeowner wrote a response.
Three sentences.
I received your letter.
I appreciate that you named what you did without calling it a misunderstanding.
Then he stopped.
What else?
Forgiveness?
No.
He did not know if he forgave her.
Did not need to.
He added:
The pool is mine again.
He mailed it.
That was all.
The elderly widow died the following year.
Eighty-six.
Peacefully.
Her family held the memorial at a local church.
The homeowner sat in the front section because her children insisted he was family.
One daughter told a story about her mother fighting the HOA over the shed.
Everyone laughed.