All I wanted was a quiet place where my daughter and I could finally feel at home. Instead, after moving in, I found myself facing someone determined to make our lives miserable.
The moving truck pulled away just after 2 p.m. I stood in the driveway with a cardboard box balanced on my hip, staring up at the little house that was suddenly mine.
The paint was peeling in soft curls along the siding. The porch sagged on the left side as if it were leaning in to hear a secret. It wasn’t much, but it was ours.
My eight-year-old daughter, Olivia, had already kicked off her sneakers and was running barefoot through the tall grass out back. Her arms stretched wide as if she were greeting the lake itself.
“Mom, there’s a frog,” she yelled. “A real one! I named him Kevin!”
“Kevin the frog stays outside,” I called back, laughing. “He’s a wild animal.”
I set the box down on the porch step and let myself breathe.
My dad had left the lake house to me when he passed away six months earlier. For the first time in years as a single mother, I wasn’t writing a rent check to someone else.
We’d lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment for so long that Olivia thought a hallway was a luxury.
Now she had a yard, Kevin, and a room with a window that faced actual trees.
The gravel driveway crunched under my sneakers as I walked back to the car.
It ran narrow along the side of the house, just wide enough for my old blue Chevrolet. The driveway was the only place to park. No garage. No side lot. Just that strip of gravel.
I turned and saw an older man in a faded cap leaning on the fence between our yards.
He had a kind, weathered face and an easy stance.
“Hello, I’m Harold,” he said. “Your dad and I used to fish off that dock back there. He talked about you all the time. He mentioned you’d get the house.”
“Samantha,” I said, walking over to shake his hand.
“And that barefoot tornado is Olivia.”
“She’s a keeper,” my new neighbor said with a smile.
He nodded toward the porch.
