No applause.
Good.
The HOA became boring.
This was harder than it sounded.
Leadership rotated.
Minutes posted on time.
Residents still fought about paint colors.
One homeowner argued for twenty minutes over whether “charcoal slate” and “graphite gray” were materially different roof colors.
The homeowner sat in the back wondering how civilization survived.
His daughter came home from college for Thanksgiving.
He told her.
She said:
“You wanted healthy governance.”
“I did not understand the cost.”
“What cost?”
“Roof-color discourse.”
She laughed.
Then looked toward the backyard.
“Remember when someone actually climbed that?”
He looked toward the fence.
“Yes.”
“Feels fake now.”
He nodded.
Time did that.
The former HOA president disappeared from community life after selling her house.
Rumors said she moved west.
Others said Florida.
One person said she became a real-estate agent.
False.
Years passed before the homeowner learned the truth.
A letter arrived.
No return name he recognized.
Inside:
I am not asking for forgiveness or contact. I wanted to tell you that I have spent the last several years working in an administrative position where I have no authority over anyone’s property, which is probably healthy for everybody.
He laughed.
Then continued reading.
For a long time I told myself the neighborhood destroyed me because people hated enforcement. That was easier than admitting I had begun treating enforcement like ownership.
The homeowner stopped.
Good sentence.
I believed being responsible for standards meant I had a right to cross boundaries whenever those boundaries made my work harder. When people challenged me, I interpreted challenge as proof that I needed more authority.
He read again.
That described more than HOA politics.
The sheriff’s fence was ridiculous enough to make the problem visible. I wish I could say I understood immediately. I did not. For months I blamed you, him, the board, and the residents.
Honest.
Then:
I also know people believe I staged every violation issued during my term. I did not. Some were real. Some were collected improperly. Some I manipulated. That sentence is difficult to write, but less difficult than it should have been years ago.
The homeowner leaned back.
There.
Not a perfect exoneration.
Not total confession.
Specific enough.
I am especially sorry about the lounge chair and chemical container. I placed both. I told myself I was testing whether you would correct conditions once notified. That was absurd. I created the conditions and then punished you for them.
His chest tightened.
Confirmation.
Years later.
The letter continued.