“See that you do,” Katherine replied, turning away.
She paused at the gate, gave me a hard look, then marched out as though the yard belonged to her.
I knelt beside my oldest.
“Mom, we weren’t yelling,” she whispered. “We promise.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I said. “I know.”
That was what bothered me most.
I knew they had done nothing wrong.
And I had still said sorry.
That night, after putting the children to bed, I stayed alone at the kitchen table.
I thought about Steve.
And I promised myself tomorrow would be different.
The following afternoon, the kids swam again.
This time I sat outside and watched.
They splashed.
They laughed.
But they never screamed.
Across the fence, Katherine’s curtains moved.
I could see her shape behind the glass.
“She’s spying on us again,” my son muttered.
“Just ignore her,” I said. “She has nothing better to do.”
No complaint came that day.
For a while, I thought maybe it was over.
Then later, through the kitchen window, I saw Katherine pacing inside with a phone to her ear, pointing repeatedly toward my yard.
I ignored it.
That was my mistake.
At five the next morning, a deep rumbling noise pulled me from sleep.
The house seemed to vibrate.
“What is that?” I mumbled, sitting up.
The sound grew louder, mechanical and grinding, coming from the backyard.
I hurried to the window and pulled back the curtain.
For several seconds, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
A huge concrete truck was backed against my fence, its chute extended over my yard.
“No,” I breathed. “No, no, no.”
Katherine stood beside it in the gray dawn, arms folded, looking satisfied.
Her husband sat behind the wheel.
He owned a construction company.
The drum on the truck was turning.
Then came the first heavy splash of concrete hitting water.
I froze.
Thick gray sludge began pouring into the deep end.
Into Steve’s pool.
Into the water where my children had been laughing yesterday.
“Mom?” a small voice came from behind me.
My daughter stood in the hallway rubbing her eyes.
I forced my voice to stay calm.
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