Part 2 — The Woman on My Fence
The afternoon of the funeral, I brought our children home to a house that no longer felt like ours.
Our younger daughter, Lily, had fallen asleep in the car.
I lifted her carefully while Ben walked beside me holding Daniel’s old baseball cap against his chest.
I remember thinking only about getting everyone inside.
Taking off my shoes.
Closing the curtains.
Making it through one evening.
Then I heard a branch crack.
I stopped.
Another rustling sound came from the garden.
Ben looked at me.
“Mom?”
“Take the keys.”
I handed them to him and walked toward the trees.
Then I saw Monica.
She was halfway over our fence.
Her flowered blouse had caught on a nail, and two enormous shopping bags sat beneath her, both bulging with apples and pears from Daniel’s trees.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Neither could she.
Then Monica pulled her blouse free and climbed down onto her side as though I had merely caught her borrowing a rake.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
She brushed dirt from her sleeve.
“Don’t make this into something bigger than it is.”
I stared at the bags.
“You climbed into my yard and picked our fruit.”
“I need some extra money. I can sell it.”
“You could have asked.”
Monica gave me a flat look.
“Would you have said yes?”
“No.”
“There you go.”
I almost couldn’t believe her.
“My children eat that fruit. Their father planted those trees.”
Monica’s expression hardened.
“Well, Daniel isn’t here anymore, Claire.”
Behind me, Ben sucked in a breath.
I turned just enough to see him clutching his father’s cap.
That was the moment my grief turned into anger.
I stepped between him and Monica.
