A gate isn’t supposed to sound like a memory breaking, but that morning it did—sharp, wet, final. Like something you built with your hands and your hope can still be reduced to toothpicks by someone who believes rules only apply to other people.
I stood at the edge of my driveway, coffee cooling in my fist, staring at what was left of three thousand dollars’ worth of craftsmanship. The hinges hung crooked. The cedar planks lay scattered across the gravel like expensive confetti. My cattle had bolted to the far fence line, white eyes wide, tails high, bodies tight with fear.
And right there, framed in the open gap where my gate used to be, sat Brenda Hawthorne in her silver Escalade.
Engine idling.
Perfect lipstick.
Perfect hair.
Perfect smile.
The kind of smile that wasn’t happiness—it was ownership.
