By Saturday morning, I was standing in the front yard wondering why I’d ever thought homeownership sounded relaxing.
The lawn looked like it had surrendered weeks ago.
Grass brushed against my ankles.
Weeds pushed through the flower beds.
The previous owner had clearly stopped caring long before he decided to sell.
I had just carried another box inside when someone knocked on the front door.
A teenage boy stood on the porch, one hand resting on the handle of an old red push mower with chipped paint and a front wheel that leaned slightly to one side.
He looked about 15.
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