They kept using my fence like it was theirs. And for a while, I let it happen because it felt too small to fight over. Until one morning, I walked outside with my coffee and there was a stranger’s bed sheet stretched across my backyard like it owned the place. And something about that moment just sat wrong in my chest in a way I couldn’t shake. I live in a quiet stretch of town just outside Columbus, Ohio. The kind of neighborhood where the houses are packed close enough that you can hear someone sneeze if their windows are open.
Where fences don’t really separate lives so much as they outline them. You know what I mean? They’re more suggestion than boundary. My place backs up against another yard. And our fences meet right down the middle. Wood against wood. Like two people leaning back to back who don’t really know each other but have no choice but to coexist. Now, I’m not a difficult neighbor. I keep to myself. I mow my lawn on Saturdays. I wave if I see you.
