I just stood there and started crying.
Then he walked out of his house, smiling.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he said, pretending to sound concerned. “But I guess you’ll clean it up… in memory of your parents. They’d appreciate that, right?”
He laughed and went back inside.
That laugh stayed in my head longer than the sight of the house.
Because it told me what he wanted.
Not just damage.
Humiliation.
I wiped my tears and started cleaning, not even knowing where to begin.
I picked up soaked fast-food wrappers. Beer cans. Broken trash bags split across the wet grass.
I dragged a hose across the yard and stared at the mud on the walls, like maybe if I looked long enough, it would stop being real.
My arms shook from anger and exhaustion before I had even finished one side of the porch.
I felt broken.
But I kept going.
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