But every time Anthony imagined handing over the keys, he remembered his grandfather sitting beside the pool.
He remembered the barn.
The kitchen table.
And the place where he'd learned to become useful with his hands.
Eventually, he made his decision.
He would keep the house.
He continued working full-time, managed expenses carefully, and spent weekends repairing whatever needed attention.
By twenty-three, Anthony had made the property comfortable again.
The farmhouse exterior was freshly painted.
The barn remained structurally sound.
And the pool was professionally serviced and carefully maintained.
He didn't have an extravagant lifestyle.
But he had something he valued enormously.
Peace.
For the first several months after moving into the farmhouse permanently, Maplewood Heights seemed like an ideal place to live.
The streets were clean.
Neighbors waved.
Children rode bicycles past neatly trimmed lawns.
And the HOA organized occasional community events at the clubhouse.
Anthony didn't object to the association.
He understood why residents contributed money for shared landscaping, common-area maintenance, and facilities actually owned by the community.
He paid his assessments.
Maintained his yard.
And attended meetings when matters affecting his property were being discussed.
He simply expected the association to respect the distinction between shared facilities and private homes.
At first, everyone seemed to understand.
Then Victoria Whitmore became HOA president.
She was forty-eight, blonde, polished, and exceptionally confident.
Victoria lived in one of the neighborhood's larger houses with her husband, a real estate broker who traveled frequently for work.
She had spent years organizing charity luncheons, landscaping projects, and community social events.
Many residents considered her energetic and capable.
Others privately complained that she treated the neighborhood as though it were her personal business.
Victoria liked expensive clothes.
Bright blazers.
Designer sunglasses.
And perfectly styled blonde hair.
Her favorite expression was, "We have standards here."
She used it when criticizing lawns.
When discussing holiday decorations.
And when expressing opinions about residents whose homes didn't match her preferred appearance.
For a while, Anthony barely interacted with her.
Then she noticed his swimming pool.
And everything changed.
The first incident happened on a Sunday morning in June.
Anthony was preparing breakfast when he heard splashing outside.
At first, he assumed a bird had landed in the pool.
Then he heard laughter.
He walked toward the glass doors.
Two teenagers were swimming near the shallow end.
A boy and a girl.
Both appeared to be around sixteen.
They were floating on inflatable toys and talking loudly.
Anthony stared.
For several seconds, he wondered whether he'd forgotten inviting someone.
Then he opened the door.