“I started checking every little thing before leaving home.”
“Grass.”
“Trash.”
“Car.”
“Kids’ bikes.”
“I’d look out window and wonder if somebody was taking a picture.”
He stirred coffee.
“My wife said I was letting them live in my head.”
I understood.
“How’d you stop?”
He shrugged.
“New board.”
“Time.”
“Counseling.”
I looked.
“Counseling?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled.
“You surprised?”
“No.”
“I should probably go too.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely.”
We laughed.
I did eventually.
Not because of the HOA alone.
Because my daughter had been telling me for years.
Therapy was annoyingly useful.
I told my therapist:
“I don’t think the vandalism traumatized me.”
She asked:
“Do you check your cameras more than before?”
“Yes.”
“Do you park differently?”
“Yes.”
“Do you rehearse interactions with HOA volunteers?”
“That sounds ridiculous when you say it.”
“I didn’t say ridiculous.”
I sighed.
She smiled.
“Trauma doesn’t require catastrophe.”
“Sometimes it’s just your nervous system learning the wrong person can make ordinary space feel uncertain.”
I thought of my driveway.
She continued:
“The goal isn’t to prove you were damaged enough.”
“It’s to decide what you want your driveway to feel like again.”
That was good therapy language.
I hated it.
It worked.
I started leaving the Lamborghini outside occasionally again.
Not all night.
But long enough to wash it.
To sit in the driveway while my daughter visited.
To let my granddaughter climb into it years later and pretend to drive.
The car became ordinary again.
That mattered.
My daughter graduated.
The former HOA president sent no congratulations.
Good.
My daughter moved to another city for work.
Then back.
Then bought a townhouse.
With an HOA.
I laughed for a full minute.
“It has a pool.”
“So did ours.”
“The board publishes minutes.”
“Ours does now.”
“They have reserve studies.”
“You read them?”
“Yes.”
“All?”
“Dad.”
“Insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Rules?”
“Yes.”
She stared.
“I learned something from you.”
“That’s terrifying.”
The first week after she moved, a board volunteer knocked while we were unpacking.
My daughter looked at me.
I looked at her.
The volunteer smiled.
“Welcome.”
She handed over pool instructions.
Trash schedule.
A link to architectural rules.
Then said: